Exilarch
by A.Lion.Heart
Summary: Fenris, at Danarius' command, slew the Fog Warriors who took him in. The past has an uncanny way of catching up, and hurting in ways most unexpected. F!OC/Fenris with a little F!OC/Anders. AU. M for dark themes and violence, among other things.
1. Prologue: Hang Him Higher

**I'm rewriting this story, I do know that it's been a long time since I've updated and for that I apologize. I'm going through what's already been posted, revamping it and making it much better than it was. Thank you for patience, if you've been here once before already, and welcome to the story, if this is your first time.**

**This is for Hans Coyote, who may very well be my best friend in the world.**

**I own nothing but my four, Rowenna, Declan, Temrys and Mat.**

* * *

_Prologue_

_Deep in the ocean, dead and cast away  
Where innocence is burned, in flames  
A million mile from home, I'm walking ahead  
I'm frozen to the bones, I am..._

The storm that assailed Kirkwall blew in from the sea. Even Darktown appeared deserted as the desperate souls who lived there sought whatever shelter they could from the gale. The wind whistled and howled i's way through the winding streets, knocking over what it could and rattling that which defied it by remaining upright. It was the kind of weather that made sailors nervous. The kind that made suspicious fish wives lock their shutters tight and go to bed early; and it was this weather that Marian Hawke and her companions were waiting out over pints of ale in the Hanged Man, a pile of cards and a pile of gold in front of them.

As usual, the pile of ill-won money in front of Isabela was only marginally smaller than the pile in front of Varric, and both were substantially larger than the pitiful stacks in front of everyone else. Fenris scowled at his cards, his lips pursing in thought, Anders had long since given up on trying to win and was leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head - a rare moment of seeming peace for the mage-crusader, and Merrill was eyeing her own cards with the innocent determination of a mouse trying to worry a hole through a bag of rice. Hawke's cards were face down on the table. So pleased was she in the rare moment of serenity that she didn't even remember which cards she was holding - not that she particularly cared.

In short, everyone was having a good time. Ale and laughter flowed as easily and readily as the rain outside, accompanied by good natured calls of "cheat!" It was only Varric that seemed to be slightly disturbed, something that did not escape Hawke's notice.

Hawke tossed her cards in the center of the table, indication of folding for the current hand and leaned forward on her elbows. Curious blue eyes fondly regarded the dwarf – arguably the best friend she had in the world – and she favored him with her patented smile. "Now I know you're not letting the rest of us keep our gold out of the goodness of your heart," she teased in a low voice meant only for him, "What's the matter? Get into a fight with Bianca?"

Varric let out a gruff laugh and lovingly stroked a hand along the wooden stock of the crossbow that lay propped up against the table, ever within reach. Marian was certain that one day she was going to waltz into the Hanged Man and Bianca would have her own chair. "You wish, Hawke." He chuckled again and shook his head, waving a hand adorned in gold rings that glittered in the low light, as though pushing the question aside. "It's just one of those things, must be the weather. I can't shake the feeling that this is how all the uncomfortable stories start."

* * *

The dock master couldn't believe what he was seeing, and had even opened his door to the thunderous rain to make sure that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

A ship was trying to come into port.

"Don't just stand there," he shouted at his assistant, causing the poor man to nearly jump out of his skin. He shoved him forward, propelling him out the door and into the rain, toward the small ship. "Help them lash that thing to the dock before they drown!"

The timid assistant scurried as fast as his leather boots would allow on the stones that were now perilously slick, wringing his hands and trying to see through the sheets of rain that pelted the docks unforgivingly. "If I drown, I'll haunt his whole blighted family," he grumbled to himself, striding to the edge of the docks (or as close to the edge as he was willing to get in this hurricane) and catching the rope that was tossed down at him. "I'll take peeks at his wife in her small clothes too; serve him right for sending me out here." The end of the rope was secured, knotted firmly despite his rapidly numbing fingers. Another length of soaked rope hit him squarely in the chest and he had more than half a mind to throw it right back, the fact that he doubted he could actually throw the rope back onto the vessel non-withstanding. His beady eyes squinted against the rain in an effort to see who it was he helping, but he managed nothing more than a glimpse of blonde hair before they disappeared back over the side. Again and again, he clumsily caught lengths of rope unceremoniously tossed at him until whoever it was on that Maker-forsaken boat had decided that it wasn't going anywhere despite the weather.

It was a small vessel, a squat and unimpressive thing with little in the way of decoration, meant for carrying travelers, not cargo. Still, the dock master mused from his place of observation, there was something to be said of its sturdiness if it had survived the hurricane on open seas long enough to make it into port.

"Well now, would you look at that," he murmured, leaning against the door frame and ignoring his assistant's chattering teeth as he scurried back inside.

The passengers on the ship were debarking, and they were not at all the pathetic dog-lords who insisted on coming to Kirkwall despite the Blight having ended earlier that year.

Making use of the lashing that secured their vessel to the docks, four figures slid down the saturated ropes with an easy grace that could only be attributed to experience and coordination. Any words shared between them were lost immediately to the thunderous rain. He strained to listen anyway; catching only brief phrases and words in a familiar sounding language that he did not speak as they drew closer. Their faces remained hidden from him as they passed his office, the hoods of their silver cloaks pulled up to ward against the weather, but the promise of steel whispered from beneath the material of their cloaks. He wondered, at the flash of heavily armored gauntlets he caught, if they were Templars come to help the Chantry with their blood mage "problem". Feasible, except their ship wasn't flying the flag of the Divine and he couldn't see enough of their armor to determine whether or not they wore the flaming sword of Andraste on their breast.

As they disappeared into the gloom of Lowtown, he could not shake the uncomfortably heavy feeling that the City of Chains was a little worse for their arrival.


	2. Chapter 1: Judas

**Chapter One: Remixed and remastered, so to speak! Enjoy. :)  
**

**I own nothing but my four, Rowenna, Declan, Mat and Temrys.**

* * *

_So drive the nails in deep  
As we act on your demand  
Just hope that you can sleep  
With our blood on your hands_

It took six days for the storm to blow over. It took two days after that for Varric's bad feeling to prove more than just weather inspired goose bumps. The gang activity in the streets was renewed with vigor, and once again Hawke's mailbox was filling with requests for assistance faster than she or anyone else could keep up with. The Viscount was particularly worried about the beginnings of a pestilence that was simmering in the muddy streets of Darktown, though he was more concerned with the fact that it could spread to Hightown than he was with the actual well-being of his Ferelden refugees.

And so it was to no one's surprise that Aveline had more dour business to report when they sat down for their weekly game at their usual table, and it was much to her dismay that her friends did not seem to be taking her seriously.

"There were ten more bodies dumped outside the Keep this morning," she pressed, only half-heartedly studying her cards. "They were all identified as Carta members and they looked...bad, Hawke. Even you have to admit that this isn't normal gang behavior."

Marian shrugged and drew two more cards, tossing a few more pieces of silver into the pot. "I can't complain if someone has decided to clean up the streets. It's a relief, really. I'm awfully tired of having to do everything around here." She sent a pointed look at Aveline, who stiffened and folded her hand, pushing the cards to the middle of the table.

"That's hardly fair, Hawke. Simply because the Guard doesn't just take matters into their own hands regardless of the consequences doesn't mean that we aren't doing our jobs. Someone in this town has to follow the rules, even if you don't feel like that person has to be you. Something is happening, whether or not you want to take it seriously."

Isabela let out a throaty laugh and leaned back, propping her boots up in Anders' empty seat next to her. "Oooh, little Red's all in a tizzy," she teased, flipping her cards over and smirking at the collective groan that followed her winning hand. "Let me guess! Either good sir Donnic isn't all I've heard he's cracked up to be in the bedroom, or someone is cranky that everyone seems to be doing her job better than she is." The pirate winked in Aveline's direction and leaned forward, dragging her considerable winnings closer while Varric dealt a new hand and Merrill studiously pretended she wasn't hearing the argument.

The Guard-Captain stood abruptly and tugged her cloak from the back of her chair, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't have time for this, I need to get back to the keep." she snapped, sending an ugly glare in Isabela's direction. "Let me know when you're ready to take me seriously, Hawke. Otherwise, I'll be busy doing the job that none of you seem to think me capable of doing."

Varric's protest for her to stay was met with frosty silence and she swept from the bar with all the dignity one could muster when storming out of a room full of drunks, stepping out of the way to allow four more patrons to enter behind her. "I really don't know why you antagonize her, Rivaini," he chided mildly, resting his elbows on the table as he contemplated the cards he'd dealt, the extra few he'd carefully set aside hidden in his sleeve.

Isabela laughed deep in her throat, earning a disapproving glance from Fenris, but whatever answer she was about to give was lost as a drunk near the bar began screaming like a little girl.

Hawke and her companions looked up in time to see the first table, patrons and their drinks included, lift from the ground and slam into the wall just behind them. "Oh come on," Isabela muttered darkly, already on her feet and advancing toward the source of the commotion. Another table was hurled forcibly at their table and they were forced to scramble to their feet as it made impact, wood splinters exploding outwards.

Stinging debris bounced off Fenris' armor and cut ruthlessly into his bare feet but was ignored. In tandem, he drew his blade while Hawke's staff found its way into her hands. He looked away, repulsed slightly as he always was at her magic but remaining staunchly at her side prepared to defend her.

"What is going on?!" Merrill wailed, pulling her staff from her back and focusing a rather abrupt counter-spell through it. Another flying table was halted by her magic, flung back at their attackers and causing whatever patrons remained in the Hanged Man to scatter.

"Watch where you're tossing those things please, Kitten," Isabela's voice drifted back towards them sharply, and Hawke caught the dull gleam of her naked daggers as she engaged one of their assailants.

"I owe you three sovereigns, Varric," Hawke chimed merrily, trying to estimate just how long they had before the Templars sensed the rather flagrant abuse of magic and swooped down on them. "Here I was hoping that we'd make it the full week without something absurd happening." Power gathered easily at her fingertips, and Fenris felt his skin crawling.

The remaining tables were thrust aside before Hawke could finish her spell, their carved legs screaming as they scraped their resistance across the rough wooden floor. Where chaos had reigned only moments before there was suddenly a path, unobstructed and offering them the first good look they'd actually gotten since everything started.

There were four of them, the same four Aveline had stepped aside to allow entrance into the pub, and three were rapidly advancing on Hawke and her companions with their weapons drawn. The fourth was distracted, and rightly so, by Isabela. She struck out with one booted foot and caught him in the back of the knee, causing him to stumble and slash at her with his sword. She danced back easily, dodging the swipe and circling in again closer. Steel met steel with jarring clarity as neither side gave quarter, and the scuffle soon devolved into a head locking grapple on the floor, too far away to be of any use to the remaining group.

There was a click, a pull, and the subsequent rush of air that meant Varric had finally let Bianca sing. Many things could be said about the dwarf, most of them probably untrue or at least greatly exaggerated, but it could never be said that he wasn't a crack shot. The crossbow bolt hit home, sunk deep into the shoulder of one of the advancing three, but it did little to deter them.

There were three men, and one woman, and she was the one at their head, the one with the bolt in her shoulder that she simply reached across her chest and snapped in half, leaving the barbed head still embedded in her flesh.

Even engaged as they were, Varric couldn't help the part of himself that was a storyteller, and he was impressed. The hoods of their silver cloaks were down, revealing their faces and hers was one he knew he would write stories about, not that she was beautiful. She was anything but, he would argue later, but certainly something to look upon.

Long blonde hair tumbled past her waist, barely restrained in a braid that began halfway down her back, and he swore he saw bones woven into the locks along with the black feathers and rough beads she wore. Her face was regal, with sharp features that were both arrogant and vicious at the same time. A long nose, once straight ages ago, was now crooked, evidence of a poorly healed break, perhaps more than one, and her lips were a map of white scars. Tattoos that vaguely registered as unusual in his mind were stamped across her face, interrupted by scars in multiple places and only one of her eyes was the deep forest green he had apparently mistakenly begun to associate with elves. The other was a mottled, milky white - blind. Her lips were twisted into a fearsome scowl and she was baring her teeth at them.

The most marvelous aspect of her entire appearance however, had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with the man striding at her side; they were nearly identical. The same long blonde hair, same eyes, same regal features, though they suited his face far more than hers, and he was lacking the scars that she was littered with. While she was a lesson in thinly veiled violence and tension, her twin (they could only be twins, Varric reasoned) was casual, almost pleasant despite the fact that he had a bow drawn and leveled squarely at Fenris' head. He seemed to be amused, if anything, with the situation; his attention squarely on Isabela and his fighting companion. He was unshaven, just a step above scruffy, and his eyes were sparkling.

The man on her other side was clearly a mage, marked only by the staff and Force magic he was manipulating. He wore neither the robes of a mage, nor the heavy plate armor of his companions, but a light chain that allowed for easy movement while still offering a semblance of protection. His dark brown hair tumbled into his equally dark eyes and he was glaring daggers at Fenris, his staff also singling out the Tevinter elf.

"Broody, you have some serious explaining to do when this is over!" Varric cajoled, his voice far more cheerful than was appropriate as he loaded another bolt into Bianca and let it loose. The arrow punched straight through _her_ armor, piercing her thigh and wresting an angry sound from her throat as she continued doggedly forward. "Have you missed us, Fenris?" she growled behind clenched teeth. Her cloak fell to the ground, the clasp broken as she tore it from her neck and reached behind her to unsheathe her weapon. The crossbow bolt in her shoulder wrenched painfully at the movement and a fresh gout of blood spilled down the front of her armor. "Did you give us even a second thought?"

Her accent, so similar and yet markedly different from Fenris' set Marian Hawke's teeth on edge. If these people were from Tevinter and they were here for Fenris then it could not spell anything good. She crept forward even as the wild blonde and her twin stopped with their mage just behind them. "If you wanted to play Wicked Grace, all you had to do was ask," Hawke joked with a lightness that she did not feel. Rowenna ignored her.

The axe in her hands was massive. Handle and blade both were a dark black, and the sheer weight of it was apparent in the strain on her face that came way of her injured shoulder. "No, I thought not. Good little dogs don't think on the commands they are given," she sneered, continuing on as if Hawke had never spoken. Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cried of danger and Merrill squeaked out a useless warning when her weapon lifted with a small degree of difficulty. Her feet slid in the growing puddle of blood that was pooling beneath her, fed by the wound in her thigh as she swung the axe over her head. Momentum carried the weapon along its path far more than her own strength did, and the air sang when she let it go.

Fenris flinched; though the weapon missed him and sank instead into the table just off to his right, splitting it nearly in half. His own sword hung loosely in his grasp and his expression was hard, his dark brows drawn together. He could feel the eyes of his friends on him, burning holes through his armor, prying into things they had no business knowing, into things he wished he didn't know.

The stranger swayed in place, the loss of blood paling her face and interfering with her balance. Temrys, her mage, slipped in next to her silently and offered his shoulder in support as she continued glaring at Fenris, panting from the exertion of remaining upright. Behind her, Isabela and Mat were still scuffling, their fight having long ago devolved into a grappling match. Isabela was winning.

Fenris looked conflicted, of that Hawke had never been more certain. For a moment, it appeared that he wanted nothing more than to reach out to this violent stranger, though his arms still hung at his side, his weapon still in his hand. He recoiled, as if reeling from being struck, when she spat at his feet and sneered at him through blood stained teeth. "You will think on us now."

Incredibly, the trio turned to leave, Rowenna limping between Declan and Temrys toward the door. At a gesture from Temrys, Isabela lifted bodily from the floor and was flung across the room, allowing Mat to scramble to his feet. "I wouldn't," Declan called over his shoulder at Hawke, without bothering to look. "I wasn't planning on killing anyone besides Fenris, but I'll make an exception if you don't put that knife right back in your boot like a good girl."

Fenris bowed his head and waited for the onslaught of questions that he had no desire to answer, and the Fog Warriors disappeared as swiftly as they had arrived.

* * *

"It is none of your concern," Fenris growled quietly, his sword sliding back into place across his back. "If they come again, then they will come again and knowing why does nothing to change this."

Hawke and Fenris were alone, following the trail of blood that Rowenna had left behind her. Varric and Isabela remained behind at the Hanged Man, working their magic (and likely their gold, Hawke thought wryly) on the proprietor of the establishment and the Templars that were no doubt arriving shortly. Hawke rather liked drinking there and she would hate to have to find a new haunt. Merrill wandered home alone, promising to return first thing in the morning should anyone have need of her, and so it was just Fenris left alone with Hawke's unrelenting questions.

They prowled the alleys of Lowtown with the comfortable ease that is born of familiarity. "This is one of those things that I'd prefer to know about _before _they happen, Fenris. I dislike people trying to kill me when I'm trying to play cards. It's bad form." The bloody footprints glinted darkly in the low moonlight, a macabre guide that was leading down the cracked and filthy steps into Darktown.

"They weren't trying to kill you, Hawke." The hateful smell of unwashed bodies and open sewage assailed their senses as they descended into the slums, following the trail left for them. No matter how short he kept his answers, how obvious he tried to make it that this was not something that was open for discussion, Hawke insisted on prying and it was beginning to wear on his already precariously thin nerves.

"Fine," she allowed sarcastically, toying idly with an herb pouch on her belt. "I dislike it when my card games are interrupted by people with murderous intent. Is that better?" She rolled her eyes in the darkness, rounding an abrupt corner that was beginning to lead to disturbing familiar territory.

"Hawke." Her name was spoken as a warning, his voice brooking no room for disagreement; he would allow no further prying into the matter, not tonight, not ever if he could help it. Mercifully, she allowed the subject to drop and they moved on in silence.

The direction of the footsteps had Hawke's pace quickening into a brisk walk that exploded into a bursting run through Darktown, Fenris trailing behind her. He had recognized before she did, just where it was that Rowenna, her brother, and their two companions were headed.

The door to the clinic flew open, slamming into the wall with a deafening crack and Hawke barreled inside, staff drawn, only to skid to an incredulous halt. "Anders!" she shouted reproachfully, not believing her eyes.

They were there; all four of them, and Anders did not seem to be concerned in the slightest. Declan was lounging lazily on a low table, cleaning his fingernails with a curved knife, his bow leaning against the wall, just within reach. Mat and Temrys were laid out on cots, sleeping quite deeply for two people who had just threatened lives and had their own threatened, and Rowenna was sprawled in a rough wooden chair. Her armor had been removed and was lying in a messy pile near her feet; the thin spun tunic and light leather pants she wore beneath her armor were stained darkly with blood, and Anders was kneeling at her side. He had one hand placed just above her knee, holding her down firmly while he tugged the bolt from her thigh. Both hands were slick with her blood, and a cursory glance revealed that Rowenna's shoulder had already been tended to.

The woman in question appeared to be lounging just as carelessly as her brother, despite the barbed arrowhead being wiggled from her flesh. Her arms rested behind her head and she was smirking down at Anders, engaging him in some quiet conversation that Hawke couldn't hear. Neither Rowenna nor Declan could be bothered to acknowledge her presence as they reclined languidly in their respective seats, though Anders certainly had.

"Hawke," he replied amiably, a dim blue glow illuminating his hands as he passed them over Rowenna's leg, mending the last of the lingering damage done by Bianca. Wiping his bloody fingers on his already messy robes, he stood and offered Hawke a wan smile. "Bit late for you to be visiting, isn't it? Do you need something?" Declan snorted, looking up from his fingernails and over at his sister, who hadn't moved, and Hawke bit back a sharp retort. To find their attackers here, with Anders, was wound enough. To have them lounging around like giant cats who didn't find her the least bit threatening was only adding insult to the injury.

She could only stare. Hawke whirled around to Fenris, hoping he could better explain, only to find he had long since fled.


	3. Chapter 2: Iron

**Chapter two appears, fixed and in working order.  
**

**As usual, all I own is Ro, Dec, Tem and Mat.**

* * *

_Somewhere along the line  
You decided you deserved this  
You gave into all your failures  
And somehow you thought time would put you back together_

Hawke cursed under her breath and kicked the door shut behind her; the familiar sound of Templar boots on the march bringing her back to herself. "What are they doing here?" she hissed, her staff still unsheathed and her magic eager, just on the other side of the Fade. She felt cornered and trapped by this surprise, and it was showing in her cagey movements. Every word was punctuated with a step forward, drawing the mage further into the clinic and closer to the bizarre scene in front of her. "Did they threaten you? Did they hurt you? Are you alright?" She watched them from the corner of her eye warily, ready to defend both herself and Anders should the need arise.

Anders' hands rose defensively against the onslaught of Hawke's questions, that same wan smile still on his tired lips in an effort to placate her. "Hurt me? Maker, no! They've been _helping_ me for the past week. Why would they hurt me?" Confusion furrowed his brow and he half turned to look back at the twins, the only two out of the group of four who remained awake; one eyebrow lifted inquiringly. Impudently, Rowenna squinted her good eye at him and pursed her lips as though gauging him to see if _he _was a threat, and Declan simply mirrored his own expression, a blonde brow lifting in unison with his. Both were smirking and Anders couldn't help but chuckle in return.

"Ask them," Hawke commanded, her blue eyes narrowing suspiciously at the siblings. Her fingers were growing numb and tight, her knuckles aching from the death grip she had on her staff. Suspicion flared in her belly and she struggled to remain still, breathing in through her nose in an effort to stop from lashing out at Rowenna and Declan first and ask questions later. "Ask them why they tried to kill us tonight. They're dangerous, Anders, and if they're helping you with what I think they're helping you with, it isn't worth you harboring them here."

"Get off it, Hawke" Rowenna cut in blandly, sounding only partially interested in the conversation in which she and her brother were the central focus. "We've got no bone to pick with Anders." She scratched her newly healed shoulder and shifted in her chair, crossing one ankle over the other, still refusing to rise and meet Hawke on her terms.

"They tried to _kill _us Anders!" Hawke exploded, gesturing toward the sleeping Temrys with one hand. "He was chucking tables at us, it's only out of pure luck that the Templars didn't show up sooner and cart the lot of us off to the Gallows!"

"Did not," Declan interrupted, leaning back on his elbows and fixing his merry squint on Hawke, his curved belt knife lying momentarily forgotten across his lap.

"He did! The Hanged Man is in pieces!"

"No, no, I mean we didn't try to kill you," he clarified, sounding only marginally more invested in the topic than his sister. "If we'd tried to kill you, you'd be...well, more dead and less standing here shouting like a mad woman. I mean, we _could _kill you if you wanted, but that just seems like a silly thing to ask for."

"Come on," Anders pressed, lowering his hands and gesturing for Hawke to have a seat. "It's late, people are tired, there's no need to fight right now. I'm sure this has all been just a big messy misunderstanding."

"Fight? Anders, did you not just hear him? He threatened to kill me. You cannot be serious about letting them stay here! This is insane!"

"Actually, he didn't threaten to kill you." Rowenna chimed in again, giving her brother a cursory backwards glance, "he was correcting you."

Hawke was seething. She squeezed her eyes shut and ground her teeth together, counting to ten slowly. When she opened her eyes again, Rowenna was still watching her the same way someone would watch an ant doing something funny; vaguely interested, amused, but certainly not threatened. The slender thread she had on her self-control snapped and she stomped forward, halting only when she stood mere inches from the reclining woman who had managed to get under her skin so thoroughly. By themselves, she wagered, Rowenna and Declan would be annoying, but manageable. Together, they made her want to tear her hair out. That they had the pure nerve to sit like nothing was wrong, as though they hadn't torn the Hanged Man apart, hadn't threatened Fenris and the rest of her friends, had her itching to just set them on fire and call it a day. They looked deceptively harmless now, like cats that Anders had lured in with his bowls of milk; but she wasn't fooled. "I don't know who you are," she managed to grind out between clenched teeth, thumping Rowenna's chest with the heavy top of her staff. "I don't know what you want with Fenris, but I won't let you, Danarius, or any of the other people after the marks in his skin so much as lay a hand on him. You might as well get back on whatever boat brought you here, and go back to Tevinter."

Rowenna lifted her chin and stared at Hawke contemplatively for a moment. She scratched her shoulder again before lurching forward, head butting the unsuspecting woman and forcing her to stumble backwards sporting a new bruise that was rapidly turning the most interesting shade of purple. The clinic lurched and pitched before the stars exploding in Hawke's vision cleared and she shook her head, reorienting her thoughts and glaring at Anders. Ducking under her heated stare, he moved in swiftly and lifted his hand to her head, his fingers humming with energy once more. "See? These are the people you would offer sanctuary. These are the people you claim are helping you. They're dangerous, Anders, you didn't see what they did." The ache in her head receded, pushed back by the gentle intrusion of healing magic, but it did little to soothe her mood. Rowenna was back in her chair, arms once again resting behind her neck as though she hadn't moved at all.

"That's not really fair," Declan interrupted again mildly before Anders had a chance to defend himself. "You've no idea who we are, or what we want. Look behind you, now back to me, now behind you, now back to me again. I'm still here but do you see your Wolf? No? Neither do I. He's good at that disappearing act. Why don't you chase after him and ask why he's running."

"Not to mention," Rowenna drawled out, "none of you seemed to be sporting any injuries while I was left imitating a pin cushion."

"Anders," Hawke continued, ignoring the twins entirely and planting her hands on her hips. Rowenna and Declan shrugged together and went back to paying more attention to their own conversation. Rowenna chuckled quietly under her breath, murmuring something in Tevinter that neither Hawke nor Anders could quite catch, but had Declan smirking and shaking his head.

"Look, Hawke. They've been helping me, both here in the clinic and with...the other thing. They've showed no sign of being aggressive or trying to hurt anyone that..." he trailed off momentarily, letting the words he was about to say die in his mouth before pushing on. "They want the same thing that we do, they want freedom! They want to help! Please, I don't know all of what's going on or what happened between them and Fenris and I really don't care to. What I do know is that I owe them a great debt for the help they've already given me. Please, please don't compromise all that I've worked to accomplish for the sake of one elf that can take care of himself." The healer was nearing the end of his rope, passing a hand over his face as he tried to calm both his own rattled nerves, and the spirit inside him.

"They've been helping you smuggle mages out of the Gallows?" Hawke threw her arms up in the air, narrowly missing clocking Anders with her still-drawn staff. He took a hasty step back, a frown drawing his lips downward and his brows together. "Hawke," he warned, gesturing for her to lower her voice immediately. "I'll not ask you again, please. I won't turn them away, I've given them sanctuary; they've been a boon to my cause."

"Anders, I really think you're missing the point here. They're dangerous. They attacked us. Are you really going to defend them because they also happen to be helping with the underground?"

"He's not a fool – Hawke, was it? - but I can't say the same for you. How well does that work for you, by the way? Rushing into things without considering all your options, I mean. Still got all your parts attached? Stop and think for a minute." Declan interjected with a deadpan expression, his sharp reprimand rolling off his tongue with the same presence as a shrug of the shoulders.

"Let me know when you lot have decided to let me speak for myself, then. I'll just be over here, doing things that don't involve being part of this conversation. Folding…laundry or something." Anders grumbled, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against the edge of one his cots. "Maker forbid I actually get to give my opinion on this whole mess."

Rowenna let out a barking laugh and gestured grandly for Anders to continue, rumbling something to Declan in their native language that had him rolling his eyes at her. "Stop talking, Ro," he grunted, fishing a smooth pebble from his pocket and tossing it none too gently at the side of her head. She laughed again, nimble fingers scrambling across her lap to scoop up the stone from where it had fallen. "As you would, Anders," she allowed with mock grace, her voice darkly amused. "Maybe you can convince your friend to stop shouting the roof down on us."

Hawke growled under her breath, sneering across the room at Rowenna, who still could barely be bothered to even look in her direction.

"_Thank _you Ro, that will be enough commentary from the gallery, as appreciated as your sarcasm always is, perhaps you ought to let me handle this," the mage sighed, running a hand over his messy blonde ponytail. "Will you sit down, Hawke? That pacing is making me nervous and you know how I get all sparky when I get nervous. Sit down, I promise you the chair won't explode out from under you. At least I think it won't. I hope it won't. Anyway, shall I start at the beginning or answer your questions in the order in which they were shouted?"

Reluctantly, Hawke's staff left her hands and was placed on a nearby cot that was still in reach; while she herself settled for leaning against a table, rather than actually sitting in a chair. Schooling her features into a bland mask, she drew in a deep breath and nodded. "Start at the beginning then. I want to know who they are, why they're here, and specifically, why they're _here."_

Anders grimaced and cast a sidelong glance at the siblings, who were engaged in their own quiet conversation, the language of the Tevinter Imperium falling from their lips fluently as they murmured back and forth to each other. "Who they are is a question better directed at them, I'd wager. Officially, they introduced themselves as Declan and Rowenna Hightower, Mat Blackwater, and Temrys. They're from the Imperium, or somewhere near it from what I gather. I don't exactly have their life stories, like I said; you'll need to ask them."

He waved absently in the direction of the siblings, not looking their way but rather focused wholly on Hawke. His amber eyes were guarded, as they always were, and she felt herself sigh internally. Friends though they may be, there was still a lot he didn't trust her with, and at times like this, it showed. "I met them on accident. You could almost say we ran into each other. The Templars were trying to take Temrys to the Gallows and they were fighting for him, rather than just letting those Chantry bastards take him and lock him up." The way his eyes bounced from hers spoke silent volumes; there was something he wasn't telling her, and she wasn't sure if it was something she wanted to know. "Ro took a sword hit to her shoulder, so I brought them back here to get patched up. From what I can tell, she does that sort of thing a lot. Not exactly the most cautious lady in the world."

Hawke bit the inside of her lip to keep from urging Anders around to his point, rather than waxing poetic about his new 'friends.' "Why are they still here," she pressed, her voice as calm as she could manage under the circumstances. "If you patched them up, why didn't they leave?"

Anders chuckled appreciatively and shook his head, rubbing a hand across the scruff of his jaw. His fingers, still sticky with Rowenna's blood, left a streak of crimson across his cheek that he didn't seem to notice. "Temrys, after everything was in the clear, decided he was going to help me in the clinic. He's a healer himself, though not as skilled as I am. He's pretty adept at putting together elixirs and potions, however, and he's good at setting broken limbs and minor things that don't necessarily need magic. It's given me some time to work on my manifesto, and to get some other work done, which Rowenna, Declan and Mat have been helping with. Yes, yes before you go on giving me that look I know you disapprove of what it is I'm doing, but it still needs to be done and will continue to be done. These mages are being herded like cattle, being made tranquil left and right on suspicion alone! It's not right! It's unjust! They agree with me, they help me. I have to say, it's nice to have other people I know I can depend on, other people who can look past the magic and see the person."

Hawke scowled openly, her hands clenching into angry fists at her sides. "I care about the mages, Anders! Andraste's Tits, I almost landed in the Gallows! Don't you think I know that it's hard not having that freedom? But that's not a fight that I'm going to try and take on, because I know it's one that I won't win, and I won't risk everyone around me by dragging them down in it!"

"How can you say that!" he exploded, his voice wavering and dropping in pitch. "Your own father was a free mage, you're a mage, and your sister was a mage!" Sharp blue light raced across the cracks and fault lines that erupted in his skin, and a blue fire blazed behind his eyes. "No mage will be submitted to the injustice of Tranquility and Imprisonment if it can be helped. If you will not help us then you are of no use to us."

Anders started forward toward Hawke, still awash in blue light, making it halfway before he stumbled to his knees, head clutched in his hands. "Hawke," he tried again, his voice once again his own; pleading and desperate. "Don't you see? Freedom is a Maker given right to anyone, not just people lucky enough to be born without magic. If you're a mage and you can be free, why can't the rest of us?"

Her lips pressed together in a thin line and Hawke passed a hand over her eyes, sighing. "Anders, we can debate the state of the Circle of Magi in Kirkwall another time. Please just tell me why it is that you're harboring these people after you know that they attacked us tonight. They're dangerous; they're going to hurt someone. I don't want that person to be you because they're using you to get to Fenris."

Anders dropped his hands to his sides, looking up at Hawke from where he knelt on the floor. "They understand," he answered simply. "They don't see us as mages, they see us as people. They understand what it means to be free, and to have that freedom taken away again. They understand what it means to fight, they understand justice; they _seek _justice."

Hawke opened her mouth to argue again, but was cut off before she could speak. Declan's voice rose, and Rowenna, finally, rose from her chair with it. "_Venhedis_, woman! Just shut your mouth and leave well enough alone for now," he commanded, his tone sharp and carrying none of his earlier displayed mirth. "Unless you want another visit from Blue, I suggest leaving. You want the truth about what happened tonight? Go find your wolf and ask him why he runs from the lions of Seheron."


	4. Chapter 3: Something I Can Never Have

**Declan and Ro, Matt and Temrys are mine. Nothing else is.  
**

**This particular chapter shares itself with the title of a great song by Nine Inch Nails, Something I Can Never Have. I recommend looking it up and listening to it. I find it suits Fenris' predicament perfectly.**

* * *

_Though it all looks different now,  
I know it's still the same  
Everywhere I look you're all I see.  
Just a fading fucking reminder of who I used to be._

"You need to be quiet or you'll get us all caught," Rowenna hissed impatiently to the cowering mage that scampered behind her, Declan and Anders. Darkness shrouded the covert group as they moved as silently as they could with a scared teenager in tow. The girl was prone to whimpering and gasping at every shift of moon light, every sharp corner they turned or every murmur carried to them on the wind, and she'd nearly tripped Anders four times with the way she was clutching the back of his robes.

She gave Rowenna a frightened look with a diminutive squeak that would have been more suited to a mouse and grabbed even more of Anders' robe, this time succeeding in not only toppling him over, but noisily tripping over his dropped staff herself with a strangled cry of dismay.

"By the Maker's nether beard," Declan groaned with a roll of his eyes. With a silence that belied his towering size, he hauled Anders up from the ground with one hand and the girl with the other. The girl was promptly shoved in Rowenna's direction, and his sister struck her across the jaw with an abrupt movement that had her crumpling. Rowenna's arms darted out and circled the girl's waist, hauling her up and over her shoulder where she settled like a sack of potatoes. "Let's get out of here before the whole Chantry finds us and invites us up to the Gallows for tea," she whispered, rewarding Anders' disapproving stare with a wolfish grin. "Yell at me later, we need to get out of here."

They were somewhere under the Gallows, though where exactly they couldn't say. The girl now being carted around like furniture was new to the Circle, and her distraught parents had contacted Anders in the hopes that he could do to do their dirty work for them and free her. Unfortunately, the girl proved to be something of a disastrous idiot, first making moon eyes at Anders, flirting and batting her lashes at him before moving on to the verge of fretful tears as soon as they'd begun her escape. Despite having to carry her on her sore shoulder, Rowenna liked the girl significantly more when she was unconscious.

The tunnels were winding and the stones beneath their feet were slick which made the going both slow and precarious. Anders led the way, the top of his staff illuminating their path and he tried not to think too heavily on what exactly it was that was sloshing around their boots. "We're nearly out," he murmured back to the twins, squinting at the ceiling in search of the ladder and trap door that served as his convenient access point to the sewer system of Kirkwall. "There."

He drew to a halt, Declan and Rowenna stopping just behind him, and extinguished the light on his staff before securing it snugly against his back. His knees bent just enough to give him leverage and he jumped, his hands catching on the bottom rung of the ladder that hung halfway down the wall and he hauled himself up easily, scurrying up the ladder and pushing aside the cover of the trap door. He peeked out, brown eyes peeping left and right before he shoved the cover away completely and pulled himself onto the paved surface of the Darktown alley that wasn't much cleaner than the sewer he'd just left.

"What was the hold up?" Mat murmured, stepping into view from the shadow he'd been lurking in. "We were starting to get worried. All of this activity with the Templars lately has me worried about how easy it is for you lot to get back out again."

"Anna was frightened and we were delayed, Ro's got her down in the tunnels with Declan," Anders replied smoothly, squatting next to the trap door and beckoning the twins topside. "We need to get her to her parents and out of the city as fast as possible. She's as jumpy as a rabbit."

Temrys dropped to his belly next to Anders and reached down into the tunnel, motioning wordlessly for Rowenna to hand over her cargo. His slender fingers hooked on Anna's robes and he jerked her up and through the door as though she weighed nothing. Scrambling to his feet, he bent down and scooped her up into his arms, nodding at Declan and Rowenna when they'd joined the group on the surface. Anders kicked the cover of the entrance back into place and straightened, brushing his hands off on his dirty robes.

He looked pleased with himself, inspecting Anna for injuries and mending the slight bruise she'd accumulated in the sewers. "She's fine," he breathed quietly, "just unconscious, which is probably better for us in the long run. This way, if she is recaptured, she can't give away our route." Anders turned, a triumphant grin on his lips, and promptly keeled over onto his hands and knees. "Templars!" he managed to gasp, dry heaving and reeling from the after-shocks of the Smite he'd been hit with seemingly out of nowhere.

Rowenna cursed, a string of long, impressive phrases in both languages and darted forward, her recently acquired swords leaping into her hands as she stood over Anders. "_Temrys, tolle puella alicubi tutus_," she barked, falling back to her native language in the hopes that the Templars didn't understand. Her mage nodded and stepped back into the shadows before turning and fleeing, Anna clutched tightly to his chest.

"_Mat, adepto Anders ad pedes eius, Declan custodi ea occupatur. _We need time." Rowenna ordered, not bothering to look back to see if her commands were being followed. She knew they were.

As ordered, Mat side stepped around her and pulled Anders upright, shoving the mage behind him as soon as he was steady on his feet. Declan had long since disappeared from sight, and the Templars circled in closer, their heavy armor singing as they moved in formation. "Hand over the mages. By Chantry law they belong in the Circle and you defy both the Maker and the law by harboring them. Surrender."

"I defy your circle, your Chantry and your Maker," Rowenna taunted loudly, flipping one of her swords expertly in her hand and pointing it hilt first at the speaking Templar. "You can tell Him I said so yourself." On cue, an arrow whistled through the dark, punching through the visor of the Templar's helmet and burying itself in his eye, and for a moment, everything was still.

The Templar collapsed to the ground in a crash of heavy armor and large weapons, his life bleeding from his body in a rapidly growing pool of crimson that spread beneath him. As he fell, Rowenna launched herself forward, her feet driving into his back and cracking his spine as she leapt from his corpse to the nearest standing Templar. The impact of his armor against her chest knocked the wind from them both and they tumbled to the stones below. Locking her legs around his waist, Rowenna rolled and pinned him beneath her. One armored hand raised and the struggling Templar struck her full in the face, the weight of his gauntlet turning his fist into a weapon. She felt as well as heard the crunch of her nose being broken and let out a howl of outrage. Three arrows sprouted from the offending arm in swift succession and the Templar let out a choked cry. Snarling and snapping her teeth at him, she ducked beneath another swing and slammed the hilt of her sword down across the face of his visor.

His head snapped back, cracking against the ground and momentarily stunning him. Blindly, he reached out and grabbed hold of her arm, drawing her toward him only to knock her back with the force of the Smite he released. Though she was no mage, the force of the expelled magic was enough to send her lurching backwards. Her arm jerked painfully in the socket when the Templar refused to let it go and the joint popped with a sickening sound.

"Behind you, Rowenna," Anders warned, the color returning to his face as the effects of the Smite wore off and he could cast the beginnings of a spell once more. Grunting against the painful flare of warning in her shoulder, she dropped to her knees before the Templar and in his confusion, the man let her go and she rolled away.

Lightning arced from Anders' hands down his staff and out the top, leaping from the mage to the armor that the Templar wore. The man's screams sounded immediately, echoing off the walls of the close buildings with a disturbing clarity until he dropped, still, silent, and smoking.

Another arrow found its mark in the weak spot of the third Templar's armor, catching him just under his arm and Rowenna reveled in the rush that took her over in the thrill of a good fight. Throwing herself at the remaining Templar, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to the ground in a vicious grapple.

He struggled, pummeling her back with his fists but she stubbornly hung on, tugging him beneath her to pad her landing and his helmet rolled off, coming to a stop several feet away. Rowenna bared her teeth at the pinned man in an aggressive show of blatant defiance and drove her head into his with as much strength as she could muster. He cried out in pain as his head first hit hers and then the filthy stones beneath them and renewed the force of his blows against her back. Again and again she head butted him, stars and black spots mottling her own vision until she felt his struggle weaken and his arms slipped back down to his side. "Mercy," he pleaded in a tiny voice, no longer resisting.

Rowenna looked down at him, shaking her head in an effort to clear her vision with little success. "Mercy," he cried again, squeezing his eyes closed.

"_Fiet vobis," _she whispered, leaning forward and driving her sword into his throat. A fount of blood surged forward, coating her hands and stomach, and his legs kicked out once, twice, and then twitched still. Twisting the sword sharply, Rowenna withdrew and rose unsteadily to her feet.

"Let's get out of here; someone's bound to have heard the noise."

* * *

Someone had indeed heard the noise. Three someones had heard it; and were watching the unfolding scene from their hiding spot pressed against the brick wall that lay in shadow just out of range of the scuffle. Hawke was appalled at the tableau, horror and nausea fighting against each other in rolling waves from the pit of her stomach. She had always known that Anders was smuggling mages, he'd told her more than once. She just hadn't known that he was willing to outright murder Templars to do so. It was true that the renegade mage spared no love for the men and women he referred to as torturous jailors, but the level of violence she had just seen went beyond dislike and it forced the bile to rise in her throat. This, she decided, had to be the influence of the Tevinter warriors he'd so blithely taken into his home.

Far from disgusted, Isabel was silently cheering the group as they rolled and traded blows with their would-be captors. More than once, Hawke restrained her from leaping into the fight with both feet and so she settled for placing silent bets on who would beat the hot, bloody mess out of who. That Anders and his companions were killing Templars was of no real consequence to her. She had seen worse, been involved in worse, done far worse than this. Maybe, just maybe, Kirkwall would see a little more excitement now that the hornet's nest had been so neatly yanked from the tree and thoroughly stomped on. She could only hope.

Fenris was no stranger to the method in which Rowenna so eagerly and excitedly threw herself headlong into combat with no real preparation. He had fought alongside her and her brother in the past, had seen the difference between them that turned tides in battle. She was fueled by emotion and adrenaline, a lion freed from its cage momentarily to devour those who dared to poke at it with a stick; and was tempered in a dangerous way by the cool calculations of her brother. Declan allowed moments to tick by until the perfect one was ready to be seized, calmly ending lives with the professional detachment of a seasoned killer. Her fists were punctuated by his arrows, and his daggers were backed up by her axe. Once, in a different life, he would have been right there beside them, where he belonged. Now, in this life, he had utterly and completely shattered any hope of belonging with them ever again and it ate at him in ways he did not want to admit. Rowenna's accusation had been false, Fenris thought of them every day. Every day he had mourned them for dead and the guilt helped devour him.

The stir of magic in the air threatened to spark the lyrium in his brands and ignite them as it rushed over him and he struggled against himself in an effort to keep them muted and unlit. He, like Hawke, was disgusted at the scene before him. The death of the Templars did little to stir his heart, but the flagrant use of magic to destroy, and the ease with which Anders conjured it made him feel ill. Worse still, was the now unshakeable knowledge that Declan and Rowenna had firmly immersed themselves in the abomination's world. They, who hailed from Seheron, who had seen what magic was capable of first hand, not only helped Anders with a confidence that the mage did not deserve, but included another mage in their numbers as well.

That they had helped him first, with that same confidence, with that same ferocious loyalty turned his hands to angry fists at his sides. That he had betrayed them had him turning his face away in shame. He didn't want to look, as the abomination helped Rowenna to her feet with a cocky, sure grin that sat lopsided on his lips, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. He didn't want to see Declan slap Rowenna on the back or her sling her arm around his shoulder as he knew they would. He did not want to see the life that he could have had, _should_ have had, if it had only not been for magic.

"_Venhedis,_" he swore violently, as the group limped away with the cheerful swaggers of the victorious. His fist connected with the brick wall and Hawke let out a swear of her own, catching his wrist in her hand only to have him yank his arm away. He did see the hurt in her eyes, the subtle down turning of her lips, but it did not move him, not now, not this time. He and Hawke were close, she was perhaps the only person he could call a friend in the city of chains; but she would not understand this. She was intruding and he scowled at her darkly, stepping away.

"Who are they to you?" she demanded of his retreating back.

Fenris did not answer.


	5. Chapter 4: Once In A Lifetime

**Declan, Ro, Temrys and Mat are mine, nothing else.**

* * *

_And when silence comes back to me_

_I find myself feeling lonely_

_Standing here on the shores of destiny_

_I find myself feeling lonely_

The darkness offered him no respite, no refuge from the memories that dogged at his heels. How ironic that he, who could remember nothing of who he was before, wished so fervently that he could forget this - them - as well. Fenris prowled the streets of Darktown long after Hawke had given up the chase, long after the Fog Warriors and the Mage Underground had gone to sleep for what remained of the night. He warred with himself, growling and running his hands through the snow white hair that lay in a tousled mess atop his elven head. He was not a coward, he was merely being practical, he reasoned. Only a fool walks knowingly to their death; it was why he fled so far from Danarius in the beginning and it was why he avoided those warriors from his past now. Still, he could not shake the image of Rowenna in the Hanged Man from his head. Always observant, always watching, he had seen the tremble of her hands; not a tremble of fear, but of poorly suppressed rage. He had seen her fingers twitch with the desire to close around his branded neck. Even Declan had presented with the tell-tale signs of anger; though they had been carefully schooled and masked beneath his jovial expression. His smile was flat, pasted on his face and not quite reaching his eyes. Fenris had long ago learned to read the twins, it had been impossible not to, given the amount of time he had spent with them.

His traitorous feet, bare as they always were, nearly slipped out from beneath him and he was pulled bodily from his brooding. He had somehow, while lost in his thoughts, cut a path back to the scene of violence from earlier and was standing in a pool of blood that had hours ago turned a cold, sticky black. It squelched unpleasantly beneath his toes and he stepped back, tracking half-moon foot prints of blood with him. He squared his shoulders and gazed down at the dead Templars who lay prone at his feet. It had been foolish of Anders to simply leave the bodies here. Fenris scoffed and looked away; did the abomination really believe that no one would miss these men? That they would not be found and an alarm would not be raised? For a man so keen on helping to better the position of mages, Anders was careless far too often. His misplaced sense of righteousness would be his downfall.

"Need some help there, love?" Isabela's crooning voice drifted darkly across the back of his neck and Fenris shuddered, stepping away from the dusky skinned pirate and putting several feet of distance between them. She chuckled, one hand resting on her hip as she eyed him appreciatively before gesturing to the dead. "Tell you what, I'll help you help Anders and you can owe me a favor for it later."

Fenris bristled, his hands balling into fists at his sides as he took an angry step forward. "I am not helping the abomination," he seethed at her quietly.

The twinkle in her eyes told him too late that he had walked into what should have been an obvious trap hidden in her words. "Oh dear," she clucked, sauntering close enough to nudge one of the dead men with the toe of her soft leather boot. "That would mean that you're trying to help the same people who are trying to kill you. Varric will absolutely love this; the broody elf, secretly aiding his assassins in the dead of night."

"I was merely coming to see if they had removed the bodies," he retorted, swallowing whatever words he had been about to say and choosing the neutral route, folding his arms across his chest and doing his best to look disinterested. He preferred her not to know that he had come back here without thinking, that he had been driven by something he did not understand back to this place.

"Well, you came, you saw, you lurked around in a broody temper. Guess you can run along home now, all finished!" Isabela cooed. When Fenris made no move to leave, she laughed under her breath and maneuvered easily around the bodies until she stood at the entrance to the sewers that Anders had used earlier. She knelt, taking great care to make sure Fenris saw as much of her exposed skin as possible, and tugged the splintered wood covering away. "This way," she instructed casually, leaning the grate against a nearby wall. "We can take them through here, there's a tunnel that leads out of the city."

He didn't move. Fenris stood as he was, arms at his sides and expression carefully neutral. "You assume that I intend to assist them," he stated flatly, the earlier grit gone from his voice. The last thing he wanted was someone else trying to badger answers from him, Hawke was already enough.

"Well if you're going to tattle on them, you're certainly standing in the wrong place. Red's office is on the nice side of town." Her smirk was beginning to get under his skin, those dark eyes prying into his secrets in ways that made him shift awkwardly away from her gaze. He silently berated the pirate and the way she was always watching everything. He felt trapped, pinned beneath the heaviness of everyone's stares since the twins had arrived.

"Why are you here?" His question was defeated and his shoulders slumped forward. With the weight of the past two weeks on his shoulders, Fenris was beginning to doubt that he had the strength to keep on like this. Avoiding them had been easy at first, but they were slowly working their way into everything in his life, even his tentatively called friends. Only Hawke remained resolute in her desire to keep them far from him. Not for the first time, he contemplated running again, and cursed himself for a coward.

"Why are you?" she countered sharply, making no effort to look away from the struggle playing out across his face. She bent at the waist, grabbing one of the Templars under his arms and dragging him toward the open sewer. Fenris fell silent. "That's what I thought," Isabela grunted, straightening her back and hefting the man up as best she could. "Now get his feet, this bloody armor is heavy."

Mechanically, feeling almost as though he were dreaming, Fenris moved to oblige the pirate who was helping him help Rowenna and Declan. He tried hard not to think on the fact that Anders was also being helped, by extension. They shifted together and heaved the first body down into the darkness. Isabela winced as his armor clattered and rang loudly on impact, jostling against itself as he tumbled head first into the sewer and Fenris paused to glance around, wanting to ensure that they were still alone. "Right," Isabela noted with a grim determination. "Didn't think it would be that loud but what can you do? Three more, ducky, then we can hustle them out of here and your little playmates will be safe to try and kill you another night."

Fenris was quietly grateful to Isabela for not asking questions. He knew she had them, she _always_ had them, but for now she was keeping them to herself and for that he felt relieved. No doubt, this would come back to him in a way he least expected, at some unforeseen time in the future - the wench was incapable of letting any debt go unpaid - and he would deal with it then.

His hands, slick with congealed blood, plucked Declan's arrows from the slain Templars quickly, tearing them from the flesh they burrowed into and tossing them to the side. The weight of Isabela's curious stare was heavy on his back and he grunted at her, not turning to look until he had divested all of the arrows from their temporary quivers of dead men. Her arched brow and pursed lips were met with a blank stare and he moved impatiently to lift the next Templar to be thrown down into the sewer. Again, there was the jarring crash of falling armor and again no one came to investigate. Darktown was a dangerous place, and snooping was not conducive to longevity.

"What do you gain from this?" Fenris tried again, hoisting the last of the dead men through the tunnel entrance and shoving him roughly down. "I've nothing to pay you with; you already possess most of my coin."

"Secrets," Isabela replied. A swatch of cloth was pulled from her belt pouch and she scrubbed the blood from her hands, taking care to get beneath her fingernails as well. "You have secrets; I have secrets, and now we have a secret together." Satisfied that her hands were as blood free as she was going to get them standing in an alley, she tossed the rag to Fenris with a wink. "I can't rat you out, and more importantly, you can't rat me out." She flashed him a cocky smirk, twisting her hair up off of her neck and pinning it to her head to keep it out of the way. "I think a better question is what do _you_ gain from this? Hawke might think they're slavers, or working for Danarius, but I know better."

The questions he was expecting her to press never came. Isabela leapt neatly down into the sewer herself, the darkness swallowing her up as she plunged below and disappeared from his line of vision. "Are you coming or not?" Her voice echoed strangely from the depths and with one last glance at the blood that was still splashed everywhere, Fenris followed her down.

* * *

"That was bloody brilliant!" Anders crowed, the excited grin on his lips making him look ten years younger. He leaned heavily on his staff and turned his twinkling eyes on Rowenna and Declan. "Really amazing! Did you see that?"

Declan chuckled under his breath, ducking inside the clinic and holding the door open for Anders, who was propping up his sister, and Mat, who trailed behind them cautiously. "Nope, I sure didn't," he teased good-naturedly, kicking the door shut behind them. He tugged the quiver from his back, tossed his bow onto a nearby cot and promptly sat down to count his remaining arrows.

Anders helped Rowenna onto a separate cot and shot Declan a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. "Right, right, sorry." Heads turned as the door opened for a second time and Temrys slipped inside with Anna, no longer unconscious but awake and alert and clinging to his robes in much the same way she had been clinging to Anders. Temrys closed the door with a quiet click and flashed a toothy grin at Rowenna that was quickly returned. "I see you all made it back in one piece," he observed.

"For the most part," Mat replied, settling against the wall so he could tug his boots from his feet. "You know Ro is never exactly in one piece."

"You two are just so clever, full of wit and funny things to say, aren't you?" she shot back. The sneer she attempted to send their way never made it, pulling into a wince and then a flinch as the pain of her broken nose and split lip throbbed to life. Now that the adrenaline of combat was draining away, everyone was beginning to wear the signs of their aches and injuries.

She batted Anders' hands away as he moved to tend her, pushing him out of reach with one armored foot. "See to yourself first," she ordered, ducking under his repeated attempts at scrutinizing her nose. "You'll be no good to anyone if you keel over because that smite knocked more out of you than you're willing to admit." Her breath came in painful wheezes with each expanse of her battered chest and her face was already purpling, but her lips curved up just slightly in a rare grin. Still riding the high of their hard fought victory, she felt invincible, each ache reminding her that she was still alive with every beat of her strong heart.

"I think she just called you a wuss, Anders," Mat teased from across the room, waggling his brows. "Are you just going to sit there and take it?"

"Maybe he's into that sort of thing," Declan mused aloud, looking up from his arrows with an impish smirk.

Anders dodged her swiping hands and defensive feet, pointing a demanding finger at her as he managed to get close and doing his very best to ignore the unsubtle teasing of his friends. Once, when he was a different man he would have joined them easily, but he was no longer that man. "I got you here just fine, didn't I? Stay still or I'll _make_ you stay still and it won't be pleasant."

Raucous laughter from Mat, Temrys and Declan had Rowenna glaring heatedly and grunting something at them in rapid Tevinter but she stilled somewhat and allowed Anders to approach her.

"Thank you," he murmured, leaning his staff at the foot of the cot and gesturing for her to sit up straight. She complied, if only barely, and he could only chuckle down at her petulance while he rolled the sleeves of his robes up to his elbows. His fingers moved faster than she expected, and she blinked in a dazed confusion as her breastplate suddenly popped free and was tossed behind her. A warning growl rumbled to life in the back of her throat and her companions had another good laugh at her expense, while Anna looked on in confusion and just the smallest bit of jealousy. The little mageling turned her nose up at the ruckus before her and huffed, crossing her thin arms across her chest.

Anders flicked the top of Rowenna's nose bossily and the growl turned into a whine as she shrank away from him. "What was that for?" she complained, her hands flying up to cover her broken nose. Arching a brow, he reached down and around her, feeling expertly for any fractured bones she may have accumulated in her scuffle with the Templar who'd assailed her back with his heavy gauntlets. "If you're going to growl and puff up at me like a cat, I'm going to treat you like a cat. Now _behave_, you've got three broken ribs and I need to set them in place before I heal them," he commanded brusquely. Justice and Anders were grappling inside him; the spirit was not pleased that Anders had his arms around a woman in what could be construed as an intimate embrace, no matter what the purpose was. _Distraction!_ He clamored from inside. Anders ignored him.

Grumbling something incomprehensible under her breath, Rowenna stilled and allowed Anders to prod her back and sides until he was satisfied. With a nod, he slid his hands from her sides across her stomach and up to the arm that was hanging limp and pathetic from her shoulder. "Lucky for you," he rumbled, pushing hard at the joint and eliciting a hiss of pain from his patient. "This is only dislocated and not broken. Some minor muscle damage too, but that can be fixed easily. I'm gonna put this back where it belongs before I fix anything else, since you'll need your arm for me to fix your ribs. Are you ready?"

"If I say no will that stop you?" she complained, not particularly looking forward to the pain she knew would accompany the joint being forced back into place. She'd suffered from worse before, but that didn't mean it was going to be comfortable. "Go ahead."

Anders nodded again and placed one hand firmly on her shoulder, pressing painfully on the joint and causing her to squeeze her eyes shut. "Hurry up, please!" she demanded through clenched teeth. Obligingly, Anders' other hand wrapped around her arm just above her elbow and he jerked it roughly in one direction before pushing it upwards and snapping it back into place with a disgusting sucking pop. A steady stream of Tevinter curses rewarded his effort and Rowenna's shoulder was immediately bathed in blue light as he healed the rest of the internal damage that had been done.

Smiling cheerfully, Anders withdrew his hands and had the gall to wink down at her. "Feel better?" She grudgingly nodded and rotated her arm. She wiggled her fingers, shrugged her shoulder and stretched, enjoying the slight tingling soreness that accompanied the now healed injury. "Good, that means we can get to the fun stuff. Ribs first, missy, so sit up straight and put your hands on my shoulders." When she obliged, his hands found their way to her back once more.

Declan barked something Anders didn't understand that had Mat snickering in a way that was just ominous and fishing money from his pocket. Temrys scowled pointedly and Anders wondered not for the first just what it was they were saying. Disconcertingly, Rowenna laughed along with Mat and gave Anders a sidelong smirk, shooting him a look he did his best to ignore. Swallowing the lump in his throat that he was sure hadn't been there before, he continued working, suddenly overly conscious of the compromising position he and Rowenna were in. Any awkward thoughts he may have had were dispelled before they could take root when his fingers found the first rib that was out of place. With a careful precision, he rapidly shoved and prodded and pushed rib after fractured rib back into formation, ignoring the way Rowenna's face contorted painfully with each jab.

"Almost done," he proclaimed merrily, running his fingers across her ribs in one last quick examination to make sure everything was as it should be. "Now we've just got to fix your face."

Declan howled with laughter, his hands on his knees as he gasped for breath, joined by Mat and even Temrys for what had to be the umpteenth time. "Oh good luck with that one, Anders," he choked, "Not even magic can fix that ugly mug."

Anders at least had the decency to look sheepish. "Walked right into that one, I suppose," he mumbled, flashing Rowenna an apologetic smile. She simply rolled her eyes and motioned for him to continue, sticking her tongue out at the riotous men sitting just out of range of her boots and fists. After the painful processes of repair on her arm and back, it was as simple as a minor healing spell to mend the split in her bottom lip, her broken nose and the rainbow of bruises that both injuries had granted her.

"Thanks," she offered, hopping from the cot and stretching her arms over her head, relishing the feeling of being healed. Quicker than Anders was prepared for, Rowenna stepped into his personal space and abruptly tweaked the end of his nose; which only served to fuel Declan's laughter. "I'm going to sleep," she announced to the rest of the room, not bothering to pick up her breastplate from where it lay. Kicking off her boots as she went, she settled onto a cot in the back, folding her arms behind her head. Within seconds, her eyes were closed and her deep breathing indicated that she had in fact, done exactly as promised, leaving behind a confused Anders and a Declan that was in serious danger of suffocating soon if he didn't get a hold of himself.


	6. Chapter 5: Gray, Sublime Archon

**Chapter Five, in which things finally start to happen and we learn a little more about what happened all those years ago. As always, the twins, Mat, and Temrys are mine. Everything else is not.  
**

* * *

_I must look like I'm running away  
To you at your faster pace  
I wonder what it is you could have seen, in me._

_I'm the evil one who said_  
_Gonna let everything just happen._

The sewers were treacherous. How Anders managed to navigate them so well and with so little trouble was a mystery. The tunnels joined together and split off radially in countless different directions, making the underbelly of Kirkwall into a veritable maze. The ease in which someone could get lost and never make their way out again was a very real and possible threat, hanging dangerously over their heads. The weight of the Templar was beginning to bear down on Fenris' shoulders and he grunted, shifting his grip on the dead man's arms in an attempt to alleviate some of the strain. He felt his bones creaking, his fingers alternating between the painful sting of an ill-seated carry and the numbness of bearing too much weight for too long. Isabela was practically strolling along, her hands wrapped firmly around the Templar's ankles as she jaunted about in front, leading the way through the twist of tunnels and dank corridors. "It may be prudent to remove the armor from the next one before we carry him," Fenris observed dryly, his eyes focusing on the back of Isabela's head. Until now, he had never regretted his decision to forgo shoes. Something squished and squeaked underfoot, something alive; Fenris grimaced.

"Say, there's an idea," Isabela agreed coyly, glancing back over her shoulder and fixing Fenris with a mirthful grin. "Now why didn't I think of that?"

Fenris exhaled slowly, counting to ten under his breath. The pirate was toying with him, that much was obvious, though her reasoning remained as obscure as ever. He was quite sure he did not want to know the inner workings of her thoughts. "Why not indeed," he grumbled, more to himself than to her. "Are we nearly there?"

"Just about, give or take a few wrong turns or so. I'd bet sovereigns to coppers that this is how Anders gets his little runaways out of the city. Some of these tunnels lead straight out into the wilds of the Marches. Men have gotten lost out there and never come back." Isabela chattered away carelessly as she guided him, and his silence hung as heavily as the weight of the murdered Templar between them. Isabela had questioned why he was doing this; he realized belatedly that he didn't have an answer, not one that would make sense. The stone in the pit of his stomach sank deeper and he withdrew into himself, Isabela's sing-song voice fading into the background. He'd thought they were dead. He almost wished they still were. The dead don't feel regret, remorse, pain. The dead don't cry or rage or feel sorrow; the dead are simply that. Dead.

Shame ate away at him, and he helplessly tried to rationalize his actions. In truth, it could have been the magic in his brands that forced him to obey Danarius and his command that day, but he suspected that it had less to do with lyrium, and everything to do with indoctrination. He had been _weak._ He was afraid of his master, afraid of him and of disappointing him. His stomach churned, and the escaped slave tried to force his thoughts in a new direction but they stubbornly disobeyed. _Kill them, _Danarius had ordered, and he had. Nausea forced him to swallow thickly and his teeth parted his lips as he grimaced, steeling himself against the brute force of the memory that assailed him.

He'd heard her before he saw her, crashing through the underbrush. He realized dimly that she must have heard the screams, and the roar of her lion companion shook him to his very core. The beast loped gracefully at her side, a large male not yet grown into his mane and only halfway tame; only for her. Her voice sought him out, calling and searching and he'd vomited from the concern he heard there, which served only to make Danarius laugh all the harder. She was not afraid of him, she had been afraid _for _him. "Well?" Danarius' voice dripped in his ear, as oily as the man himself. "Why do you wait, little Wolf? Go greet your friend."

"Alright, drop the lump and help me force this grate.'

Isabela's voice cut through him, rescuing him from the suffocating trap of memories and shame by nearly tripping him as she released dead Templar's feet without warning. Fenris pitched forward and only through credit of his balance was he saved from losing his footing and getting a face full of the muck that lined the sewer floor. Lowering the Templar to the ground, Fenris took the chance to stretch his arms and shoulders, easing the ache that had taken up residence there as he inspected the grate that Isabela was leaning against. It was, to put it simply, rusted in place. "Move," he ordered gruffly. She obliged, shifting out of his way and slinking back a few feet to give him space, her dark eyes alight with curiosity.

Nimble fingers explored the rusted wrought iron grate inquisitively, weight and push were applied here and there to test its level of give and finally - abruptly, Fenris was ablaze with light, his hands reaching _through _the iron and pulling apart the mechanism that had rusted the grate shut. A screeching, whining grind sounded from the protesting hinges as it swung open and outward, moonlight illuminating the dark tunnel even more so than the Lyrium Ghost had.

"I always love seeing that little trick," Isabela mused idly, pushing past him and ignoring the grunt of warning he gave when her shoulder brushed his. She wandered out of the sewer and into the moonlit clearing that it emptied out into. "There's a marsh about ten minutes' walk north of here, leave the armor on; he'll sink better that way. Don't make that face at me; it's your own fault you didn't figure it out sooner. Left, left, right, left, left is the way back through the tunnels. If you get lost, keep your hand on the left wall as you face in and it'll guide you up and out to an entrance behind either The Blooming Rose or the Chantry, depending on which wrong turn you've taken. Good luck! Have fun! Don't stay out too late now, Ducky."

Confused, Fenris watched her from the shadow of the tunnel, his dark brow furrowing in consternation. "You're leaving." It wasn't a question, so much as a vocalization of his confusion.

Isabela laughed, already slipping back inside past the grate. The darkness enveloped her, hiding her from the night and her laugh echoed back to him from the stone walls of the sewer. "It isn't really penance if someone is helping you. Even _I _know that."

Penance. It wasn't something he'd considered but perhaps the pirate was right. There were no questions as to how she knew - Isabela was far more astute than she played herself off, she was cunning. One did not get as far in life as she had without sharp blades and a sharper intellect. He could respect that.

Tirelessly, Fenris moved with the conviction of a new purpose. Isabela's _penance _rang loudly in his ears with every struggling step he took. He saw it in the furrows gouged by the Templar's heavy boots as he was dragged, heard it in the splash as Templar after Templar was given an ungracious and secretive funeral. They did not need services or memorials, such frivolities lay firmly in the realm of the living. That one could not go to the side of their gods when they died without assistance was a notion that he dismissed as foolish. What then, becomes of the dead, with no one to guide them?

The stone returned to the pit of his stomach as the first morning birds, hours ahead of schedule, began their song only minutes after the irascible swamp had claimed his last secret. Filthy, bloody, sweating and exhausted, he let the memories come as he trudged his way back to the sewers that would return him to Kirkwall, and to her.

He closed his eyes, his feet having already memorized the way back, and allowed the images to assail him as he knew he deserved. Penance was not penance unless one faced their crimes.

The lion was roaring and Rowenna was screaming with him. Pain, sorrow and _rage _encapsulated into one wordless noise that reverberated against his very bones. They were searching for him, calling for him, not yet knowing. The knowing would be almost worst. Danarius was laughing from the spot where they hid, shrouded in his blood magic, made invisible by his will and his power. "My little pet," he cooed, crooking an arthritic finger and caressing Fenris' cheek. "How she worries for you! Go, allay her fears."

Fenris felt himself shoved bodily from the invisibility that shielded him from Rowenna's eyes, stumbling on the shore and catching himself with the bloodied hilt of his sword. Unseen fingers twisted sharply in his guts and he wheezed, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears that threatened to drown him and called out to her, unable to stop.

"Fenris!" She sounded so relieved that he nearly emptied his stomach again and braced himself against his sword to remain standing. Her lion, joined at some point unseen by Declan's, prowled the site of the brutal slaughter. Their heavy paws made no sound, muffled by the thick jungle underbrush; they were searching for something. "Fenris, what happened? The Qunari war party was days outside of our encampment, how did they make it here so fast? Is Declan with you? Have you seen my brother?"

Guilt laced her frantic words with a heaviness that struck him as a blow to the face. She felt responsible? Of course; she thought it was the Qunari warbands and she was a scout. That she may have missed another war party and caused _this _was likely devouring her. "Fenris!" she called again, brushing her wild blonde hair from her eyes, both still that deep forest green. "Declan, where is Declan? Where is my brother? Why aren't you saying anything?"

Helpless, he turned his eyes toward her and willed her to understand; willed her to accept that he didn't have a choice. He silently pleaded with her to strike him, hurt him, kill him, but never, ever to hate him. He took a reluctant step forward, and then another; his mouth worked wordlessly, what could he say? Her eyes narrowed sharply and she drew back, her gaze leaping from the gore splattered blade of his sword and back to his face. His guilty, anguished face.

"There's blood on your sword, and there are no Qunari bodies." Her voice was low and dangerous, accusatory. Her backward steps halted and reversed and suddenly she was prowling toward him, anguish twisting her own face. "The men aren't dressed for war. Fenris, where is Declan?"

He could hear Danarius laughing behind him. If she could hear it, she gave no sign. Her eyes were wild; her expression came unhinged and turned her into some feral beast from the darkest parts of the jungle. "What did you do? How could-no it doesn't even matter, just tell me _**what have you done with my brother?**_" His voice was once again his own, his tongue came unglued and he bowed his head, unable to look her in the eye when he spoke those shame filled words.

"I am sorry."

Her shriek shredded what little parts of him had remained and she threw herself at him. Unarmed except for a bow, unarmored save for her leather breeches and tunic, she was determined to rip the life from him and cast his bloodied body into the sea with the monsters where it belonged. His arms were slack at his sides. Fenris did not strike out, defend, or even cower. The impact her chest made against his drove the breath from his lungs and he closed his eyes, accepting the vertigo rush in his stomach that meant she'd taken him to the ground. Angry fists assailed his face, his neck, his head and he only cried out when she was torn from him by magic, flung backwards into the air and catching a hard landing on her back. Weary, and nearly too heavy with remorse to even stand, he pulled himself slowly to his feet. Leaning heavily on his sword, his lungs burned and he could taste the blood from his broken nose and split lip in the back of his throat.

"A fine show," Danarius applauded, stepping from his unseen hiding place. Blood trickled from his wrist and Fenris felt his stomach twist again. Blood magic. Danarius had used blood magic against her.

Rowenna was on her feet again in moments, her bow broken and useless and tossed aside. She made it four steps before she was flung backwards again and Fenris burned. He could do nothing. He wanted to, but this was Danarius. This was _Master. _Her chest was heaving and she got up a third time, ignoring Fenris' silent pleas for her to just lay still, to submit though he knew she never would. "Pathetic," she spat at him and Danarius both. "Cowards and old fools."

The amusement slid from Danarius' face like an old snake skin and he glowered at the Fog Warrior. "It is not a matter of cowardice girl. You had my property. I was retrieving it."

Again, Rowenna struggled to her feet and again she was thrown back. Something soft broke her fall and she let out a strangled cry. Declan. She'd landed on the still and bloodied body of her brother. Trembling fingers smoothed his matted blonde hair from his face, a face that burned hot as if he still lived, but with injuries that made it seem impossible to be so.

A shout born of unadulterated fury tore from her throat and left it raw; this time she nearly made it to Danarius before she was thrown and her back cracked against the tree she'd hit. "Fenris isn't your property," she growled, blood seeping from her gums, her lips. Even her voice was thick with blood, husky from damage obtained during her multiple falls. "He's a coward and a dog, but he's his own coward and his own dog. A coward and a dog that's going to die."

Fenris had been wrong, the knowing was not worse _this_ was worse. Hearing her defend his right to freedom after everything he had done. He did not deserve that, did not deserve the absolute truths that the Fog Warriors clung to, even in death. "_Every man deserves to be free," _Declan had said one late night while they shared watch. "_No matter what he's done, no one should ever be forced to kneel."_ Fenris felt as though he might be sick again.

Danarius shook his head with a cluck of his tongue and approached her. A simple spell snapped her arms and legs to her sides and immobilized her while he grasped her chin between his bony fingers and turned her head first one way and then the other. "If you were prettier, I might have kept you."

Rowenna spit at his feet, her blood staining the sand and Danarius back handed her carelessly. His heavy magister's ring caught her in the eye and the noise she made turned Fenris' bones to water. Tears and blood mingled on her cheeks and dripped across his lips and chin, wavering with every gasping breath.

"Oops," Danarius supplied, his lips curling cruelly as he observed her anguish. He released her and snapped his fingers, turning away from her disinterestedly and making his way back toward the shore. "Fenris, finish cleaning up and return to the boat. I think we've dawdled here long enough."

Rowenna made no sound as he approached, her chin thrust forward defiantly, one eye narrowed and the other already swollen shut, leaking blood. Still bound by Danarius' magic, she leaned helplessly against the tree. He wished he she would look away, instead of staring at him so solidly. "Rowenna." Her name was a hundred different meanings, spoken on a voice that was broken and rasping. "Rowenna, I am sorry." Still, she didn't look away. Her lips pulled back in a sneer and he strangled the sob that threatened to rise in his throat. The familiar itch of Danarius' magic raced across his brands and he lifted his sword.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"I know," he replied.

The vehemence of her words, dripping with venom, struck him as heavily now as it did then. The nausea at his actions was just as fresh, his guilt increasing exponentially for everyday that he realized he had not thought about _them _in a while; only what he had done to them. Foolishly, he allowed himself to be happy, to grow...close to others, knowing that he had the potential to ruin them just as he had already done to others brave enough to shelter him from Danarius. Crawling from the sewer, his task at hand finally finished, Fenris was prepared to slink home, to bathe and then spend the morning tossing sleeplessly in his bed, as he always did. He was not prepared to see Rowenna waiting for him, sitting perched atop a pile of precariously stacked boxes. She was leaning forward, her thick blonde hair held back in an unruly braid, a curved sword lying across her lap. With the memories of her believed murder still so fresh in his mind, the images still burning across his vision, some distant part of him laughed in relief at seeing her whole. The intensity with which her eyes followed his every movement was predatory. She was silent, unmoving as she watched him pull himself from the sewer, carefully replace the covering and straighten his back. He stood across from her, glowering up through his mess of white hair, resenting her for catching him unawares, for catching him in his pathetic attempt at penance.

"This changes nothing," she declared quietly, fingers tapping along the flat side of her blade.

"I know," he countered, the same way he had all those years ago.

She hopped down from her perch noiselessly, her soft leather boots muffling any sound the brief fall may have made, and slipped her sword through her belt. The hilt caught, as she intended, and secured it in place, the light steel bouncing against the outside of her leather clad thigh with every step closer that she took. She halted abruptly, ten paces between them that could have been ten thousand, and folded her arms across her chest. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, looking so painfully nonchalant and distant, she made a show of looking him over. "You know," she repeated, her voice only a few steps below scornful. "Just like you knew then. Why'd you do it?"

It was a loaded question and she knew it. She was asking about the Templars, but also of other things. Fenris felt trapped, his breath coming in short, rapid pants and he forced his hands to remain unclenched at his sides as he brought himself back under control. "The reasoning does not change the actions," he replied slowly, at last; an answer to both questions and neither at the same time. Rowenna's lips twisted angrily and she took another half step forward. She was not exercising the same control that he was, her calloused hands were balled tightly at her sides and she wanted to strike him, he could see it in her eyes. "Tell me why!" There was no question in it this time, it was a demand. He could feel her rage boiling just below the surface, she was tensely poised, ready to explode and yet he did not miss the pain that coiled sharply in her eyes. He'd betrayed her. His stomach churned, he wanted her to strike him, to hurt him, he _deserved _it but she only stood there glaring. The 'why' hung between them, refusing to be denied and his chest constricted, he couldn't breathe. Light was flickering to life and dying just as rapidly across his lyrium markings yet she refused to back away, reminding him of what he had done, the different life he could have had.

His self-control snapped, his fingers curling in to bite the curve of his palms and he was suddenly moving forward. The muck that splattered his bare feet and leggings left curiously dark foot prints behind him as he advanced, forcing Rowenna to take a step back, and then another, and another until she had nowhere left to go. The sharp angles of the boxes piled behind her dug into her back as he pressed her into them, standing too close. Her fist, drawn back to strike, was captured deftly in one hand and twisted painfully behind her back, joined by the other which had been inching toward the hilt of her blade. His eyes were narrowed, wild and just as angry as hers, only inches away as he leaned against her, chest to chest, stomach to stomach and legs to legs. "You and your brother and your people taught me freedom," he hissed. There was no intimacy in their closeness, only pain and rage, yet it stirred old feelings to the surface all the same. "You gave me an identity when before I was merely just some _thing_ to be utilized. I would have died for you and instead I killed you. Does the reason change what I have done? If I tell you why, will your slain kin rise suddenly from their graves and continue living?" He was being cruel, he knew it, but he couldn't stop. "Will it ease your pain to know?"

She head butted him viciously in answer, twisting in his grasp and looping her leg around the back of his knee. He fumbled with his balance, her persistent tug at his center of gravity upsetting his sure-footed stance and sending him crashing backwards. She was on him in an instant, pinning him to the ground with her weight and the tickle of her sword at his throat. "You left the question on the sand to rot with my brothers and sisters. I already buried them, I want to bury the question when your friends are lighting your pyre." Angry tears born of a long fueled hatred burned in her eyes. "I want to know what they died for."

Fenris laughed, a low and unstable sound that was empty of joy. It very nearly bordered on hysterical. "I deserve your wrath, but that does not mean that I have any intention of making it easy for you. If I simply hand my life over to you, it means nothing to either of us. You taught me that."

Declan's voice drowned out any response she may have given, and Fenris bristled angrily beneath her when he saw that the abomination had accompanied him. Did the twins really go nowhere without that mage? "And here I thought my days of finding you two like this were over."

Anders arched a brow curiously, looking over at the pair. Fenris realized belatedly, that it could have been a compromising situation - had Rowenna not been brandishing her sword at his throat and threatening to kill him. "They were lovers?" the mage inquired. The subtle lacing of disappointment in his voice wrested a growl from Fenris' throat. Did the abomination harbor desires for Rowenna? As though magic had not already ruined enough of her life.

"No," she answered calmly, still pressing her blade against his skin.

"No," Declan agreed, smirking slyly over at Anders. He too, had heard that murmur of interested disappointment. "They were both far too stupid for that. She taught him how to grapple and he taught her the finer points of swordplay."

"You know that I can't exactly approve of you killing Fenris right in front of me," Anders interjected, his eyes on Rowenna's weapon. "He's a friend of a friend and we need him and Hawke won't be too happy with me if we kill her brooding boyfriend. She's so…grumpy lately. Would you let him up, please?"

Rowenna eyed Fenris speculatively, her lips pursing in thought. "So the Hawke and the Wolf? How fitting." She made no move to let him up, but she didn't have to. The moment she turned her eyes from him to her brother, arching a brow, his brands lit up blindingly. He phased through the sword, up and over and had her on her back in seconds. One long fingered hand closed around her throat and he ignored Anders' shouts. Declan wasn't shouting. Shouting wasn't his style. Declan was lounging.

"_Sis aecus,"_ he growled in her ear. "_Tantum te."_ His hand relinquished its grip on her throat, and he was off her, disappearing into the winding alleys of Darktown.

Rowenna was on her feet in moments, the heavy armor of her boots crashing loudly against the filthy Darktown stones as she gave chase to the ghost who had annihilated her past. Confusion battled with the hatred that danced beneath her skin and old feelings rose to wage war against the death she wished so stubbornly to visit upon the fleeing elf. "_Just you," _he'd whispered in her ear, the hand around her throat loose enough to ensure that breathing was not a difficulty. "_Only you"._

She rebelled against the sadness that hung heavy in her belly, quashed it under the heavier stone of absolute rage and hatred. Her lips pulled back in a wild snarl and she pushed herself faster forward. How dare he say those things to her? She felt an ugly growl rising in her chest, the breath panting from her lungs in rapid bursts as she kept up with Fenris. Once, he had been quicker than she, but no longer. With the heat of violence and anger blazing at her heels, she ran impossibly faster. He had a head start, but not much of one. Glimpses of white hair flashing in the muted light of a burning lamp and the occasional rustling of his leather armor kept him within her sights. Rowenna was a hunter, she could follow her prey for hours, days, years if need be, but she always got it in the end.

Like so many had before him, Fenris would choke on her sword as she shoved it down his throat, would wheeze and gasp when Declan's arrows punched holes in his belly, and she would laugh and feel better, knowing that justice had been done.

He rounded a corner and took the cracked stairs leading up to Hightown two at a time. He knew she was following, the hunt was in her blood and he had fled from her. Even still, her boots were thundering noisily on the stones as she pounded after him. He'd have to have been deaf not to hear her.

She howled after him, a mocking and sarcastic noise as she closed in. "Run faster, little wolf! The lion is nipping at your heels!"

He did run faster. His chest was burning with the strain of keeping his unforgiving pace, but his destination was in sight. Looming domineeringly over the rest of Hightown, the Amell-turned-Hawke estate was a beacon of safety in an otherwise pitch dark and dangerous evening. Behind him, Rowenna made a furious noise, wresting a Tevinter curse from his own lips. She'd recognized the manor, which meant that she'd been scouting him for longer than he'd originally thought. His tongue felt like a stone in his mouth, would Rowenna kill Hawke for harboring him? Would she strike down the dwarf and his daft son for simply being in her way?

He didn't believe it. The vengeance that she nursed so close to her heart was special, for him. Hawke and her family were merely mild obstacles to be outpaced and danced around. Rowenna was nothing if not patient. Tonight would not be the night that his life was handed over to her care.

The burning orange glow from the upstairs window told him that Hawke was home, he was almost there. He felt like a coward as he leaped the fence that closed in Hawke's garden, his stomach turning remorsefully when he heard Rowenna follow him. No thoughts were spared for the poor flowers she was no doubt trampling underfoot. "Stop running from me, Fenris!" she growled, her breath hot against the back of his neck. She lurched forward, her arms already locking around his waist and she pushed forward - hard. Their combined weight carried them both to the ground and directed by the sharp twist of Rowenna's hips, they fell together in a painful heap in a thorny bush.

The soft leather of her glove muffled any noises of protest he would have made, her hand smothering his mouth as she covered it, leaning forward to hiss quietly in his ear. "A coward still, Fenris. I'm ashamed that you are the one who could have ended my family. Always running, fleeing, because you can't face what you've done." Her armored knees were digging into his sides, the hand not silencing his mouth was pinning his arms over his head in a bruising grip and the weight of her kept him pressed into the soft earth of Hawke's flower garden. "You haven't told them," she continued, her eyes darting up to the window as a shadow moved across it. Hawke was still awake.

"They don't know that they harbor a murderer in their midst. A ruiner, a _deceiver._ Would they keep you, wolf, if they knew what you had done? Do you hide the truth out of shame or shameless self-preservation? Is that why the little bird fancies that she loves you?"

Each word was a stinging barb, hooking into his flesh as readily as one of Declan's arrows. They pierced him thoroughly, rendered him immobile beneath her vicious onslaught. Each one conjured a memory of them together - hunting, grappling, the feeling of her hips pressed against his as she showed him again and again how to incapacitate an opponent.

"They don't hate you, and they should. I want them to hate you as I hate you." Her voice was growling, husky. Quiet and low, for his ears only. "I want you to know what it's like to have everything and then nothing. I want the Hawke to know what you are, I want the Mage and Blue to continue wanting to kill you." Her words burned him, his heart stuttering at the delicate way her tongue had slipped around the mention of the abomination. Surely she hadn't...

"Hawke wants you," she whispered hatefully, "She fancies that she can make you into a man who can stand to be touched, and who can love her back. I think we both know the truth, though, don't we Fenris? You love no one; can love no one, because you're _afraid._ Danarius won't take you, little wolf." Her hand slid from his mouth and she pressed her bruised forehead against his. "He won't take you because I've already got you and unlike your master, I won't let you get away."

Her eyes flashed to the window once more, her lips curving into a smile. Her hand released its grip on his wrists but before he could look to the window to see what or who it was that continually had her looking, her lips were crushing his.

Fenris was frozen, his long fingers digging into her hips as he stilled beneath her kiss. Her teeth bit his lip with a sharp pain and his blood was shared between them. He was hurled bodily into memories several years past, memories of her laughing with him, memories of her stern face the day he'd stumbled into their camp. A strangled groan escaped his chest and he crushed her to him, his own lips seeking hers, begging forgiveness and offering sorrow. The feel of her hips against his was burning him, his markings danced from the heat of her hands against his skin, her lips and tongue against his.

Just as suddenly, he was cold and alone, lying in the thorny bush with a bloodied lip and bruised wrists. His heart was pounding in his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut against the confusion that ached in his bones. When he opened them again, his eyes darted skyward, to see what Rowenna had seen, and wished he hadn't.

There, in the window, was the reason for Rowenna's kiss.

There, in the window, was Marian Hawke.

He cursed, allowing his head to fall back to the dirt as she turned from him, and the light in the window went out.


	7. Chapter 6: Mental Armor

**A giant thank you as always to nh09jrb, my wonderful beta and the person who helps ensure that you all get the absolute best story out of me.**

**Temrys, Mat, and the contentious twins belong to me, everything else does not. Enjoy!**

* * *

_Oh, I have the memory of trust  
I tried to keep it close  
And oh I have the memory of trust  
I swallow it whole_

Anders was waiting up for her when she finally stumbled her way through Darktown and back to his clinic, drunk enough to make even Isabela blush. Morning was no more than an hour away, and Rowenna was pitching and rolling like a sailor on shore leave. "So," he drawled lazily, his voice betraying none of the things that were rambling through his head. "Is this a good drunk or a bad drunk?"

Rowenna rewarded his question with a ferocious grin and leaned against the closed door. Her left leg lifted from the floor and she began unlacing her boot, impressing him with how little she swayed despite how very inebriated she was. "Drunk isn't the right word," she corrected. Her thick Tevinter accent was more pronounced under the influence of the Hanged Man's fire whiskey, and he almost winced. She sounded very much like Fenris, her consonants sharp and angled, almost as pointy as her sword. He was reminded again that these two were inextricably linked, his stomach churning uncomfortably at the thought. "My sweet little possessed mage, I am tossed and hammered and three sheets to the wind, I was _drunk_ about an hour ago."

"Right, thank you for the clarification." His voice was a disapproving rumble, and Justice let out a noise of agreement in the back of his mind. Nevertheless, he crossed the room and knelt before her, sobriety lending his fingers a grace that hers did not possess. Under his ministrations, her boots were unlaced and pulled from her feet, placed neatly by his door. The main room of the clinic was mostly dark, with only guttering candles to keep the night at bay. It was also empty of patients, and of Rowenna's companions who had moved into a vacant house nearby. Only Rowenna remained here in the clinic, night after night, for reasons that she had not explained.

There was something about standing barefoot in the dark in Anders' clinic that had Rowenna feeling strangely defensive, though she knew she could chalk a good deal of her nerves up to her tussle with Fenris earlier in the night. Her skin didn't seem to fit her quite so well, being pushed at by hate and revenge from the inside. Her unanswered demands of why still rang in her ears alongside Fenris' refusal. She sighed tiredly and closed her eyes, her head falling back to rest against the stained wood of the door. The fight, the chase, the incident in Hawke's garden and now the liquor had exhausted her, and her heart beat slowly in her chest, reminding her with each thump that she lived while her kin did not. She ached for the refuge of sleep, but Anders was not quite ready to relinquish her over to it.

"What happened with Fenris?" he asked quietly, dubious as to whether or not he actually wanted to know. Watching the two of them disappear into the late night-early morning darkness of Darktown had twisted his stomach nervously. The elf was dangerous, and with Rowenna's inclination to hurl herself headfirst into a fight and lick her wounds later he'd been worried, but Declan didn't seem overly concerned and so they'd not given chase.

A bitter laugh spilled from her lips and the tilt of her chin directed his gaze to her face where her mismatched eyes met his almost defiantly. "Do you mean tonight, or do you mean before?" she responded. The heaviness of her accent rolled over him, foreign and different, the sound of a place where mages were not less than people, but free. He could not remember what about it had reminded him of Fenris.

Helplessly, he ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the tie that restrained it. "The first one, though I won't deny that I am curious about the second."

"Fenris is still in possession of his life, what little it's actually worth." She answered. Cold anger twisted her lips. "If you want the other story, ask Declan and maybe he'll tell you. I won't be recounting it ever again. Living it was enough."

He heard her speaking, but was not truly listening. Caught in his own thoughts, in his own speculation, he pressed further in spite of himself, questioning her, suddenly desperate to understand. "Why are we friends? Are we friends? Why do you always come back here? Why do you help me with a cause that means nothing to you?" The words slipped unbidden from his lips before he could stop them. Unable to take them back, he stared with still breath. Even Justice seemed to grow uncharacteristically quiet inside him, anticipating with some trepidation the answer to their question.

"You and me? We're the same. We have nothing, or close enough to it to count. That little bit we have left is the taste of freedom still in our mouths. We know what it means. We had it and then it was gone, and we might never be able to get it back like it was, but we will have our justice all the same." The flinty pitch in her voice and the steel in her eyes had the spirit inside of him clamoring. Inside his head, Justice was crowing triumphantly at the true discovery of a kindred soul. Anders felt himself falling into the spell her words were weaving, felt the fervor of truth and conviction beckoning to him. "Every man deserves to be free," she whispered fiercely, "no matter what."

"You know," Anders murmured, his eyes alight with the fire of her words, "You're not half bad when you're not angry."

She laughed mirthlessly and ran a hand over her face. "Shows what you know, mage. I'm always angry."

A wry smile crooked his lips. "That makes two of us then."

"So let's throw a party," she shot back sarcastically, retreating into her aching head with a close of her eyes. She wanted him to leave her alone and stop dredging up the past with his curiosity. The night already seemed so much longer than it should have been. She'd snuck out to meet Isabela for a night of drinking after the lights in Darktown had been extinguished, only to find out from her what Fenris was about. Waiting for him had taken more out of her than she cared to admit. Sitting there atop the boxes, eyes pinned on the spot where she knew he would emerge, just waiting, was nerve wracking. Her thoughts had raced at breakneck speed and she'd been rooted in place, unable to move even if she'd wanted to. It had been much easier to hate him when he was a distant memory, far out of her grasp. Caught glimpses here and there had already sent whispering worms of doubt into her resolve. Now, intermingled with the memories of what he'd done were memories of who he had been, _what_ he had been to her before that ruinous day. Her mind was betraying her and she used that anxiety to fan the flames of her anger, pushing back images of a barely there smile and replacing them with blood stained sand and still bodies. Forgiveness was not an option. Not when her people's blood cried out for vengeance from the jungles of Seheron.

"One more question," Anders prodded. He wouldn't allow her to escape just yet and hastily pushed to his feet, caging her against the door with his arms, his hands resting on either side of her shoulders. "What was it like, in Seheron? It seems so far away, unreal almost."

The demand in his voice opened Rowenna's eyes and he was unsettled. She looked at him with both eyes, blind and whole, and _saw _him.

"People told us," she began, the mottled milky white of her useless eye piercing him as though it could still see, "that we were fighting for an ideal, not a reality. _Kabethari._ Caught between the Quanri and Tevinter, we paid for our freedom with blood, but it was ours. We won it, we earned it, and that little piece of Thedas knew no master." Iron laced her words, infusing every syllable with the undeniable truth of someone who stood firm in their beliefs and refused to be shaken. "The price was worth it - what we did it to get it was worth it. The people who died for it weren't forgotten. Our honored dead carved for us a place where every man, every woman, and every child, could be undeniably _free."_

Inside him, Justice roared his approval.

"What happened to you, Rowenna?" His voice was low, and nearly quiet enough that she could have pretended not to hear it, but he knew she had. "What's Fenris got to do with all this? Why are you here?" In that moment, in the flicker of her eyelids as she turned her gaze from his, he felt his blood stir with the nearly oppressive desire to kiss her. He fought the urge back down where it belonged, shaken by the powerful instinct, bemused by how suddenly it manifested.

"Don't," she snapped. The whispered warning in her voice gave him pause. "Don't look for answers where I won't give you any. Fenris and I have unfinished business, that's all you need to know. Justice will be done." Anders took a step back; the unsettling thought of _this is what I sound like to everyone else_ whispering in his ear. Distracted, he didn't bat an eye when Rowenna forced her way past him and stalked to the dark corner where she slept.

Finally alone, Anders ducked into his room in the back. Sleep would not come to him tonight, and for once, the source of his distraction was not the Fade spirit in his head. "Justice will be done," he repeated to the darkness. His arms found their way behind his head as he stretched out on his lumpy cot, trying in vain to find slumber. The normally lonely clinic seemed less so tonight, and he had to admit that it was nice to have someone nearby again. During the long stretches of night when Justice was unrelenting and he could not sleep, her presence in the next room quieted him. He missed the companionship of the Warden Commander Cousland, and Howe, even the dwarf was missed on such sleepless nights. Rowenna's residency in his clinic went far in applying the balm to his reclusive soul, though she was not by any means a soothing or sentimental person. She had an annoying habit of riling his blood and pushing him into heated debates or arguments, sometimes to the point of drawing Justice out. She did not ask him about his friends or his lovers, she wanted to hear of his adventures. His repeated escapes from the tower in particular, fascinated her, and he had found himself surprisingly happy to tell her about them, to regale her with stories from the days when he had simply been Anders and nothing more.

* * *

Fenris did not know how long he laid there in Hawke's garden, pummeled by the assault of memories, guilt, longing and confusion. He did not know either how he'd gone from the garden to Hawke's sitting room, but he did not question it. His eyes, dark green and turbulent, focused solely on the cup of steaming Antivan coffee in his hand. His shoulders were hunched and drawn in as though the comfort of the chair he was sitting in somehow offended him.

"Start at the beginning," Hawke instructed, her legs curling beneath her in her own chair, an identical cup of coffee held loosely between two hands. "I'm tired of these run arounds, these _secrets_, Fenris. If we are truly...friends, share them with me. Let me help you." She was determined to see things for what they were, despite the squeeze in her chest that stemmed from what she had witnessed in her garden. It had taken several long minutes of pacing in her darkened bedroom before she could bring herself to consider the situation from other angles. Three deep breaths and a steeled resolved later, she'd descended her stairs with the decision that she could, at the very least, be the friend that he probably needed right now.

He felt defeated, unwound and defenseless after everything that had conspired against him. His eyes slid shut, the corners of his mouth twitching into a reluctant frown. Hawke's words did nothing to ease the knot in his chest, the knot that tied all of his secrets together into one heavy lump. "They were - they _are - _the bravest people I have ever known," he began stiltedly, his voice lurching and stumbling into this unfamiliar territory. His eyes slid shut and he sighed, unwilling to travel any further into his tarnished past. "You have heard this story once before Hawke".

He could practically hear the gears turning in her head, could feel the wind of her racing thoughts as she leaped from one conversation they'd had to another, until her quiet gasp told him that she'd finally made the connection. His stomach burned.

"Oh, _Fenris." _

He bristled immediately, his face shuttering closed into an expressionless mask save for the disdaining sneer that tugged his lips. "Save your pity, _Marian._" He snapped harshly. The look of kindness on her face made his guts boil, he did not want her compassion, her understanding or her pity and still she did not recoil from him as he hoped she would. "Fenris, we can talk to them, we can make them understand..."

"Would you have words with the Darkspawn that killed Bethany?" he growled unkindly, rising to his feet and setting his untouched coffee on the mantle above the flickering fireplace. The blanched look on Hawke's face did nothing to guard against the disgust he felt for himself. "Would you _understand?" _His voice filled with spite and there was some small degree of pleasure to be had in watching her draw back from his hateful words. "Would you be willing to forgive that despicable murder simply because the ogre dances to the song of the Archdemon?" He was being cruel, he knew it, but he could not stop himself.

Hawke was on her feet in an instant, the coffee in her grasp lost to the floor with a clatter when her hands balled to angry fists at her sides. She strode forward until they were chest to chest, ignoring the dark pool of steaming liquid that was rapidly cooling on her floor. "That was different," she shot back stubbornly, recovering her composure and burying the hurt that his words had roused in her. "You're not some monster, Fenris."

His laugh was bitter and full of remorse, ringing in her ears as he backed away and turned to leave her estate. Outside, dawn had finally broken and the grey light of morning was filtering in through the windows. "There are some who would disagree with you, Marian."

He was conscious of the dirty footprints he tracked into her home and it felt to him a suitable metaphor for everything that was happening. Danarius and his machinations were unfailingly present in his life, cropping up in ways that left Fenris feeling hollow. The loss of the Fog Warriors had been a blow he was not sure he could survive, and now Hawke was being made to suffer its ramifications as well. Was there anything in his life that magic had not somehow ruined or twisted? It seemed as though each time he made his escape, he was reeled back in by forces beyond his control and the people around him suffered for it.

"Fenris," she called after him, not moving from where she stood. "I won't let them have you." It sounded childish even to her ears, but he looked so lost, so angry, that she sought to offer him anything, and had given voice to the first stupid thoughts that crossed her mind. She knew what it was to live always looking over your shoulder. Perhaps not as intensely as he, but she had been shaped by her years of fleeing first the Templars, and then her escape from both the Blight and her home in the much missed Ferelden.

She watched him pause on the threshold of the manor, his knuckles growing white from how tightly he gripped the doorframe. His head turned, but only slightly, only to allow him to look at her scornfully from the corner of his eye. "When the time comes, Hawke, I doubt there will be much you can do to stop them."


	8. Chapter 7: Welcome Home

**Thank you as always to my beta, who is certainly the only reason this story is as awesome as it is. As an apology for the delay in this chapter, I've made it much longer than usual. I hope it is enjoyed by all. **

**Temrys, Declan, Rowenna and Mat are mine. Everything else is BioWare's, I'm merely playing with their toys.**

* * *

_I've become impossible  
Holding on to when everything seemed to matter more  
The two of us  
All used and beaten up_

_The farther I fall I'm beside you  
As lost as I get I will find you  
The deeper the wound I'm inside you_

Fenris prowled the streets of Lowtown with a restless energy. His unruly mind plagued him mercilessly with thoughts of Rowenna and the refuge of sleep was elusive. It was the images of her that drove him from his bed, seeking some distraction from his own head, but he could not shake them. Every time he closed his eyes, Rowenna was there. Sometimes she was whole and happy, as he remembered her before, and others she was again bloodied and limp, defeated and hating him on the end of his sword. Worse still was the way he continued to feel her on his skin, taunting him, driving him mad. He tried to summon the anger to hate her for using Hawke to injure him but found he could not. There was no anger for Rowenna, only a muted sense of desire intermingled with the guilt that came from knowing Hawke was inevitably going to get hurt simply be association.

The anger and disgust he felt for himself seemed to know no limits. His armor was cracking, his emotions and thoughts were a roiling mess that he could not control and he could do nothing about it. Rowenna, he reflected bitterly, was always apt at sliding daggers between the gaps of his armor and splitting them wide open.

It had always been that way, and he could feel them falling into that old familiar pattern. She knocked him off balance and he struggled to right himself, only for her barrel him over again, endlessly.

Skulking around the ominously gang-free alleys of Lowtown, he thought morosely of the first time Rowenna elbowed her way into his life and sent everything spinning on its head. He'd only been in their village a few days, but he already recognized the Fog Warriors as people worthy of his respect. From his vantage point seated on the outskirts of the village, he could watch them as they welcomed home their scouting party with excited chatter and the jubilant cries of children. Not long after, the one familiar face in the village sprawled out comfortably next to him, as he'd grown to expect.

"You know, you're allowed to mingle in the village," Declan joked cheerfully, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun with one hand and divesting himself of his hunting bow with the other.

Fenris shrugged wordlessly beside him and deigned not to give voice to his reservations or the nagging feeling that he did not belong here, that he was unworthy. This interaction with Declan was becoming routine, but what was not was the sudden and unexpected second presence on the other side of him. Fenris panicked momentarily, feeling trapped until she sprawled out next to him in the grass in much the same way Declan had.

"So you're the stray my brother dragged home," she teased, turning a grin on him that so mirrored Declan's it was unnerving.

"I suppose I am," he grunted, unable to decide if he should take offense at being called a stray.

"His name is Fenris," Declan supplied helpfully.

"The little wolf," Rowenna mused, drawing a dark glower from the elf. Either uninterested or unimpressed with his bristling, she ignored it and continued prying. "Can you fight at all, or are you one of those house slaves that doesn't know how to do anything?"

She was so casual, and Fenris was already seething. "I can fight," he snapped. "I am – I _was_ Danarius' bodyguard."

"Danarius is a magister? I bet you didn't see much action. How hard can it be to protect someone who can set the air on fire?"

Fenris growled and his glower deepened impossibly. Beside him, Declan was chuckling and making no attempts to hide his obvious amusement. "I am not inept," Fenris ground out between his teeth, displeased with Declan's lack of support.

"Spar with me then," Rowenna demanded, leaning forward and pinning him with her eyes.

"No." His answer was short and terse, which only served to make Declan laugh louder.

"Why not?" She was not to be deterred, and Fenris wondered how he possibly could have missed her presence in the village until now.

"I won't fight for your sport."

"Scared I'll beat you?" she taunted, trying to bait him.

"I'd rather not hurt you," he retorted, finding a small sense of victory at her suddenly and mortally offended expression.

"That won't happen," she argued, and Fenris was satisfied that she was beginning to sound as irate as he felt.

"You might as well just give her what she wants," Declan declared, still reclining lazily in the sweet smelling grass.

Beset now on both sides and feeling more than a little put out, he finally conceded with a nod of his head.

Rowenna was on her feet in an explosion of unexpected motion, her strong hands suddenly locked on his wrist as she pulled him up. He was too surprised at her careless invasion of his personal space to wrench away as he would have under other circumstances. His discomfort manifested instead in the abrupt flare of his lyrium tattoos.

Declan's laughter cut off immediately and Rowenna's grip dropped away as though his brands had scalded her. Fenris expected the normal response of mixed fear and awe that such a display usually wrought from Danarius' guests, but the twins looked a good deal more interested than they did upset. "I do not like to be touched," he offered quietly when the silence stretched on to the point of awkwardness.

"Are you a mage?" Rowenna's blunt question set his teeth on edge and he scowled anew.

"No," he practically spat, disgusted by the very idea that someone could mistake him for one of those reviled creatures.

"Can you do that whenever you want? What does it actually do? What's it for?" She pressed closer in her curiosity and Fenris edged away from her nervously.

"We are not having this discussion."

Rowenna stared at him and he stared back defiantly, daring her to try and push him in this. Whatever she saw in his face must have satisfied her. She nodded and stepped away. "We're still sparring," she warned, and he felt that at least, in this, he was powerless to refuse her.

"I don't have a blade." It was a feeble, half-hearted attempt at escaping but her brother merely shook his head.

"You won't need one," Declan informed him with a wry grin. He plucked a particularly long blade of grass from the ground and stuck it in the corner of his mouth, chewing it idly. "Rowenna's an egomaniac. She goes with no weapons and never shuts up about it when she wins. Hope you're a decent grappler."

Grappling. Fenris had seen the technique in the tournaments but generally disregarded it as sloppy. The idea never appealed to him and Danarius, too, had regarded it as lowbrow and so he had never had reason to learn. Still, he'd seen it and it did not look too difficult. He was confident that he could beat Rowenna and then perhaps the infernal woman would leave him alone.

It took only a few moments. She'd thrashed him soundly and with little ceremony.

Passing by the Hanged Man, Fenris cursed the absent gangs and his inability to vent his frustrations or find a suitable distraction. Briefly, he allowed himself the pleasure of remembering how beautiful he'd found Rowenna to be in her triumph.

* * *

Fenris did not know how long he'd hunted fruitlessly in Lowtown, but he did know that he was wasting his time. Unhappy that his violent distraction was not forthcoming, he resolved to go home. If he was destined to be pricked uncomfortably by the needles of his memories, he might as well be pricked by them in the relative comfort of his own bed.

Resigned to his miserable fate, he was halfway up the stairs to Hightown when the faint but familiar sound of armor whispering on armor and murmured conversations drifted toward him. Pausing, his mood elevated as he counted footsteps and realized they were moving closer. Perhaps his outlet was not lost after all.

As quickly as his spirits rose, they plummeted again when his prey rounded the corner and came into view, revealed not to be the thugs he was hoping for, but Hawke, the dwarf, the blood mage and the abomination. He pressed against the wall, hoping they would pass by and allow him to escape but the Maker seemed intent on punishing him and was not about to let him free so easily.

"Broody!" Varric called, drawing the group to a halt and their attention to the skulking elf. "What are you doing creeping around down here?"

Fenris silently cursed the dwarf and his near omniscient awareness, stepping away from the wall.

"Brooding about the terrible evil all mages represent, I'd wager," Anders answered snidely before Fenris could speak up.

"As is my right, considering I stand in the presence of both an abomination and a blood mage," Fenris retorted hotly, already regretting his decision to stop for them. A dull, steady ache was starting behind his eyes.

"We'll be having no more of that from either of you," Hawke interjected pleasantly. "Fenris, we're looking into the missing gangs that Aveline won't stop going on about. Care to come along? We could use some muscles."

Seeing no way to escape and unable to formulate a reason why he should not help, he reluctantly fell into step next to Hawke. The group resumed their patrol and conversations, and Fenris found he could not escape Rowenna even among his tentative friends. Behind him, Varric was pumping Anders for information about the Fog Warriors and the mage was only too happy to oblige.

He was in the middle of an explanation of where they supposedly came from when Fenris interrupted him. "That's wrong," he growled, not looking behind him. "Declan and Rowenna are the last of their tribe. The rogue and the mage aren't from their village, I don't recognize them." He couldn't help himself. The idea that Anders had somehow wormed his way into Rowenna's inner circle absolutely infuriated him. He did not miss the hero worship in the mage's voice when he spoke of Rowenna and it was enough to turn his stomach. He could not resist the urge to step in and remind the mage that _he_ had known them in ways Anders could never hope to emulate. He was fiercely protective of them, and their association with the abomination did not sit easily with him.

"What's their trouble with you anyway, Broody?" Varric called up to him. The story between Fenris and the Fog Warriors was obviously of the best kind, and he was incredibly interested in the details that no one was sharing.

Fenris ignored him. Undeterred, Varric switched tactics. "It has the feeling of a love story gone bad. Did you pledge your undying love to her and then brood your way into someone else's bed?"

It was not Fenris that whirled around at the accusation, but Hawke, color high in her cheeks. "That's enough please, Varric!" she insisted.

"That's not it," Anders supplied. "Her brother told me they were never involved."

Fenris had to bite his tongue at the retort that rose like bile in his mouth at how smug the mage sounded.

"I said enough!" Hawke bellowed, shocking everyone into silence. "Can we please focus on the problem at hand? That would be wonderful."

"Right," Varric picked up, not wanting to upset his best friend any further than he already had. "The missing gangs."

"Maybe they were all eaten by dragons," Merrill volunteered in a jovial tone, her long legs keep easy pace with Varric who was walking beside her.

The dwarf smirked up at Merrill, toying absentmindedly with one of the many gold rings glittering on his fingers. "I hope it's something as simple as dragons, Daisy. Dragons are easy. We can do dragons. Hawke here has killed dozens of dragons, haven't you?"

Hawke rolled her eyes good-naturedly and glanced over her shoulder at Varric, her good mood returning easily. "Careful Varric, it sounds like you're starting to believe your own stories," she teased, leading the group down another twisted alley. They'd been at this for a few hours now and there was still no real sign of local gang activity. Here and there were thugs, minor no name players in the underworld game but no one of interest, and never groups of more than two or three. Aveline was right, something was definitely amiss.

"Hey," Varric protested with an amiable shake of his head, "let it never be said that my stories aren't true."

"Your stories are about as accurate as those 'based on a true story' horror novels that Isabela keeps buying from that Orlesian merchant. The truth is usually something along the lines of 'once there was a person, somewhere,' and that's about where it ends," Hawke shot back.

"I don't understand," Merrill piped up, looking to Varric for clarification. "Shouldn't we be happy the gangs are going away? I thought that was what we wanted."

"Well Daisy, we're looking at two distinctly different scenarios here," the storyteller obliged easily. The pair of them trailed behind the strolling Anders, Hawke, and the ever morose elf that was always at her side. "The first scenario is that we've had a stroke of sudden and marvelous good luck and they're all clearing out of their own accord with no ulterior motives. Or, we have scenario two, in which – Hawke, my dear, care to fill Daisy in?"

"Scenario two," Hawke mused, sparing another glance over her shoulder at the duo. Her mood was improving considerably now that certain topics were no longer the source of conversation. "In which another gang or organization with nefarious intentions has moved into the area and is clearing out the competition so that they can operate unbothered."

"Now, possessing as you are of the knowledge of how limited our streaks of good luck are, which do you think is the more likely scenario?" Varric finished smoothly, following around another corner as Hawke led them on their merry hunt.

"Oh dear," Merrill lamented. Her slender fingers tightened their hold on the gnarled wood of her staff and her bright eyes darted around nervously. It was clear she half expected some terrible group of men to leap at them from the shadows now that she was aware of their possible existence. "That's not good at all."

Varric chuckled and reached over, giving the anxious elf a reassuring pat on the back. "Don't sweat it, Daisy. If anyone's going to get horribly dismembered, it'll be them and not us."

Merrill looked only slightly mollified and very nearly jumped out of her skin when she collided with Fenris' back, having been too distracted to realize that he and Hawke had both stopped. It was such a catlike expression of unhappy surprise that Varric couldn't help but feel sorry for her. She jumped back with a squeaked apology that went unacknowledged and scrambled into place beside Varric. "What is it? Why have we stopped? Is it the gang?!"

"Speaking of horrible dismemberment," Hawke replied blithely, ignoring Merrill's panicked questions. "Fenris found our first clue. Look, blood!"

It was still wet, and shone darkly against the filthy stones that cobbled Lowtown's streets. It was sticky, beginning to clot and painted an irregular, spurted path down the side alley they were currently stopped near. "There's a trail," she declared merrily, gathering the skirt of her robes in one hand and tightening her grip on her staff with the other. "See, Varric? Our luck isn't quite as bad as you make it seem."

Varric scoffed, his expert fingers running along Bianca's rigging in a final check that assured him everything was in place and ready to be loaded should the need suddenly arise. He had found that when Hawke was around, it often did. That woman had what seemed to be a never ending supply of people who wanted to either kill her or sleep with her, sometimes both. "First of all, Hawke, you're far too excited about that blood, it's creepy. Secondly, I'd wait to call this luck good until we can wager a solid bet on it. Who knows, maybe Daisy was right all along and there's really a High Dragon down that alley, munching on all our gang friendlies." Merrill giggled at the wink he tipped her and he was gratified to see that it seemed to have bolstered her courage.

"Well!" Hawke declared enthusiastically, squaring her shoulders and preparing to give her usual spirit-rousing speech of victory and the betterment of Kirkwall, only to have Fenris leave her side abruptly, taking her high spirits with him. "There's only one way to find out! Wait, where are you going?" she called out, unhappy with the sour slump he was in.

Fenris' black mood had not been lessened by his time spent with the group, and he'd had just about enough of their jocularity. They always behaved this way when on a hunt, irreverent and light hearted. His temper, already short, had been done no favors by his recent tumble with Rowenna and he was taking it out on everyone around him. He could not, however, be moved to care very much. "I am going," he growled, stepping carefully over the blood. Irrationally angry he might be, but he still had no desire to dirty his feet, "to see what is at the end of this trail so we can be done with this."

"What's bitten the bottom of his feet?" Merrill grumbled, falling into step with Varric as they again began moving.

The dwarf merely shook his head and shot Fenris a look that the elf pretended not to see. "Nothing you want to get in the middle of, Daisy," the dwarf warned. "Nothing any of us should be getting in the middle of." Hawke too, was included in his stern caution but she opted to ignore him as well.

He rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh, trudging on behind his best friend. She seemed intent on avoiding all of his warnings that she was going to get herself into something she wasn't going to like getting back out of with this particular Fenris mess. Hawke, the eldest sister and family caretaker, felt it was her Maker given duty to mend the broken pieces of everyone who fell across her path and it was an admirable trait, if not one that was going to bring her to ruin someday. Varric would just rather it be a someday much farther in the future than this. His limited interactions with the Fog Warriors had given him glimpses of insight that he was not sure Hawke had been privy to, avoiding them as she was. They were driven to take out Fenris no matter what, and he got the feeling that there would be collateral damage that they would not try to prevent, if people were foolish enough to stand in their way. He was itching to know the unspoken story that lay between Fenris and Rowenna, but he knew enough to sense that digging into _that_ particular beehive was an experience that he was not soon eager to have. It was all well and fine, his imagination could make up for the details he lacked.

The messy splatters of blood led them on a winding path down the poorly lit back alley, and Merrill was pressing in closer to Varric, her nerves apparent on her face, when Hawke stopped them again, pointing at the ground. "It looks like whoever was being carried – or dragged – finally died right about here," she stated aloud, though it was more to herself than to her friends.

Peering closer, Varric saw it to be true. The spurting pattern of blood had stopped and was now nothing more than puddles that had likely oozed from the wounds of a corpse rather than being pumped out by the beating of a strong heart.

"I get the feeling we're in for a bit of trouble," Merrill worried quietly, clutching her staff close to her chest.

Gesturing for the group to silence itself, Varric strained his ears for noise he hoped was imagined. He caught it again and cursed under his breath, slinging Bianca back up into her holster and rubbing a hand across his forehead. The sharp consonants and lilting flow of the Tevinter language drifted back to him from around the corner that led down to the Darktown stairwell. "You're right on that count, Daisy," he grunted, starting forward. If this was how it was going to be, they might as well go ahead and get the damn thing over with. Still, he couldn't deny the slight eagerness that always accompanied such meetings. They were the stuff great stories were made of.

* * *

Fenris stilled at the sound of their voices and considered turning and fleeing before he had to see them. If only he could be happy to call himself a coward, he perhaps would do just that, but he could not find it in himself to run from them again. He found that a part of him was curious against his will, as to what precisely they were about in Kirkwall. To hunt him was one thing, a thing that he expected and did not resent as perhaps other men would have. To hunt the gangs that lived here was another thing. It made no sense, which was an anomaly of itself. There was very little the Fog Warriors did that did not make some sort of sense. He wondered if it was another ploy to stab him between the ribs. Perhaps it was a way to ingratiate themselves with Hawke and her friends, to slip between them and him. The thought raised the ire in his blood. It was easier to be angry with them, he'd realized, than to try and come to terms with what his life was rapidly becoming; a constant flight from being hunted, endlessly pursued by some force or another. Anger was comfortable and familiar, and he stoked it within himself, taking strength from the burning in his bones that soothed him like an old friend.

It was precisely what Fenris expected, when they rounded the corner and the Fog Warriors came into sight, kneeling over a veritable _pile_ of bodies and murmuring quietly amongst themselves in Tevinter. Merrill let out a muted noise of dismay and Varric moved to quiet her, whispering something to her that had her taking a few steps back and eyeing the scene before her with an anxious and wary expression on her pretty face.

Hawke appeared to be at a loss for what to say, her fingers curled loosely around her staff as she leaned on it. Fenris could not blame her. He was unsure of what action to take, himself. His mind was whispering things at him already, tearing down his resolve and battering at his will, his skin heating and crawling at the sight of Rowenna in the jumbled assortment of mail, leather and chain that she was fond of calling armor. She looked precisely as she had in his thoughts and he cursed the renewed sensations and longing that stirred in his blood. He looked at her and knew what she felt like, pressed against him and seeking his mouth. If he were a mage, she would be his demon; keeping him from his sleep, intruding into his thoughts and twisting everything until he could no longer make sense of it.

Rowenna and Temrys ignored their approach and remained kneeling as they were, rifling through the belongings of the dead gangs and pocketing anything they felt was valuable or useful. Blood coated their weapons and boots, and Rowenna had streaks of it across her face. Fenris wondered how much of it was her own, and how much belonged to the dead bandits at her feet. Her bottom lip was swollen and split nearly in half, and she had an arrow snapped off in her shoulder but if her wounds pained her, she gave no sign of it. Temrys, Mat and Declan were sporting similar injuries, but they were alive and hale and Fenris was silently grateful that they lived.

"Varric! Anders!" Declan called out in merry greeting. His hands pushed off against his thighs and he rose to his feet with a wince. His normally gamboling gait was marked with a noticeable limp but his smile was easily and genuine and he moved somewhat unsteadily to stand between Hawke's group and his own.

"Attulerunt suis meretriculae daemonium," Rowenna barked to Mat and he nodded at her cue. His wince mirrored Declan's but his steps were surer and he limped over until he stood shoulder to shoulder with Declan.

"Nos oportebat iustus eius interficiam," Mat suggested, but Rowenna shook her head.

"Possumus remaneo diébus nostris. Omnes tandem amittere," she replied, shifting a dead Dog Lord and returning her attention to her task.

"What did they say?" Merrill asked, peeking nervously at Declan from where she stood, some feet away at her comfortable distance. "It sounds so lovely."

"She said it's important to remember manners in polite company," he answered with a roguish smile that caused her to blush.

"Oh, yes," Merrill agreed, inching closer and seeming to take heart from the fact that they weren't outright attacking anyone. "Manners can be very important."

Fenris snorted and even Anders seemed to know enough about Rowenna to wager a guess that Declan's translation was not at all what Rowenna had said.

"So, Varric, Anders," Declan continued smoothly, "what brings you two and your lovely lady companions to this particular corner of Kirkwall?"

"I was thinking of asking you the same thing, Chuckles," Varric replied intercepting the greeting and playing the part of ambassador. He stepped around Hawke and pasted a smile across his face, though it was obvious even to Fenris that it did not reach his eyes. "However, I have to say that your ladies are considerably less lovely than mine."

Mat clutched his chest dramatically and swooned against Declan's shoulder, donning a heartbroken expression that was too jovial for how blooded and bruised he looked. "You wound me," he moaned piteously. "I happen to be the loveliest of ladies, ser dwarf. The _loveliest._"

Merrill giggled.

"Isn't it obvious?" Declan's smile took on a decidedly lupine aspect and he was still affecting that good-natured grin and easy stance. He was being amiable enough, but the twins and their moods had always been turbulent and it seemed that had only worsened since their betrayal. "We've joined the Kirkwall Knitting Society and we're practicing our technique. Your turn."

"We were following your rather obvious blood trail," Hawke replied frankly, finding her voice again. Seeing them again for the first time since the incident in the Hanged Man had put her at something of a loss. Before she knew who and what they were to Fenris, it was easy to be angry with them, even hate them, for what they had come to Kirkwall to do. Now, she could not help but feel pity well up in her at the sight of them. She knew acutely what Rowenna and Declan must have felt that day. She understood all too well the sick void that settled in your stomach at watching your sibling fall and knowing they would not rise again. She was bitter; she realized, that they had picked themselves back up where Bethany had not.

"We weren't really taking pains to conceal it," Mat interjected, still leaning against Declan. Dark stubble dusted his chin and but for his black hair, they looked as though they could have been brothers. "I doubt the noble denizens of Lowtown are going to run calling the guard if they stumbled upon us taking care of the gangs that have been troubling them."

Anders slipped around Hawke and Fenris, his long legs easily closing the distance between himself and Rowenna, lifting his hand in a small wave. He crouched down next to her, blushing at something murmured to him even as his fingers ghosted across the damage to her face.

Fenris felt ill watching them. Rowenna snapped her teeth playfully at Anders' fingertips when they prodded her split lip and he thumped her reproachfully on the nose. Fenris did not want to consider what their apparently easy intimacy implied and looked away when the glowing blue of Anders' hands bathed her face gently with his healing magics.

"All the same," Hawke continued firmly, her chin rising as she gathered her courage around her like a cloak and took a step forward, "we'd really like to know what exactly it is you're doing."

"Ensuring the balance of Kirkwall."

Temrys' voice was a low rumble, on par with Fenris' own deep growl, and Varric's brows rose high on his forehead. Never had he heard the force mage so much as make a peep, and now here he was offering up an entire sentence. Rowenna glanced up as well, finally, her eyes on Temrys and her expression mirroring the muted surprise that Varric was sure was showing on his own face.

"Balance?" Hawke's voice was confused and her brow furrowed with the dubious narrowing of her eyes. "What are you balancing?"

Temrys regarded her solemnly for a moment with those strange flat eyes before returning to his task wordlessly. Rowenna shifted over and allowed him to take command of the looting. She rose to her feet along with Anders, standing next to him and moving her gaze to Fenris, where it hardened into an accusing glare. For once, he didn't look away.

Understanding dawned. "They're making up for what is to be my absence in Kirkwall when they kill me," he supplied for them, still holding Rowenna's gaze steadily. His heart was thudding so strongly he could feel it in his belly and he thought it surely must be loud enough to hear. Her eyes never wavered from his, and he wanted to entertain the notion that she felt something of what he did. He wanted to know if her fingers trembled from the beat of her own heart, if her breath felt heavy and on fire. The feel of her lips on his the night before consumed him again and he saw it reflected in her face, if only for a moment.

"I'm afraid I still don't understand," Hawke continued lightly. She avoided looking at Rowenna entirely; not liking the unpleasant flip in her stomach that came from how steadily she saw the Fog Warrior was staring at Fenris. She looked like a lion waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. It was unsettling. "They're not going to be killing you, so this is all rather an unnecessary waste of energy."

"Did you hear that, we're not going to be killing Fenris, lads," Mat declared loudly, the smile on his face at sudden odds with the scowl in his brows. "Guess it's time to pack up and head back home. I'm glad she settled that for us!"

Declan elbowed Mat into silence and pushed him off his shoulder before limping forward until there was but a few scant feet between him and Hawke. "That's not really your choice to make," he told her quietly, all levity gone from his face. "If we've come for vengeance, we won't leave until we have it. You can fight us, if you want, but that's only going to make things hard on you. We came here expecting justice, and we're going to get it. So just be quiet and let us do you the favor of clearing out the gangs, because you won't have Fenris' help once he's dead. We'll leave you that much, it's a fair trade."

"A trade?" Hawke scoffed incredulously. "You think I will just trade away Fenris' life for the lives of gang members who will just be replaced in time anyway? You're daft."

He shrugged away her assessment of him carelessly, and gestured subtly over to his sister, drawing Hawke's gaze over to her. Marian felt her lips twist into a sour grimace despite her best efforts otherwise and turned away. There was an uncomfortable intensity in the way that Rowenna and Fenris were glaring at each other. A blend of utter loathing and something else simmered just below the surface of Rowenna's scarred face, while Fenris was utterly unreadable, as he always was. "Do not presume that you are privy to everything, Hawke," Declan warned, stepping back from her and returning to the pile of bodies that was still being sorted through. "Because you most certainly are not."

"Hawke," Varric murmured, sliding past Fenris and looking up at his best friend. He'd seen enough, carefully filing everything away for the excellent story he knew it was going to make later. Anders and his apparent allegiance was especially interesting. "I think we should take that as our cue to leave. We've got enough information for today. You can decide if you wanna take this to Aveline or just let it be."

"Yes," Merrill agreed, confusion coloring her face. The nuances of what had just transpired were lost on her, but the sudden tension and heaviness was not, and she dearly wished to be elsewhere. "That seems like it would be the best idea."

Hawke chanced a glance over at Fenris and chewed her tongue, reigning in her disappointment that he had nothing to contribute. He had not even spoken up in defense of his own life. Did he truly feel so guilty that he was willing to hand himself over to these warriors? Her heart squeezed at the thought and she turned her face from him. Declan had spoken truly. All it took was one look at Fenris and Rowenna to know that there were things Fenris had left out of his first telling of their story. Marian had a feeling that they were things she would rather not know the details of. It stung her and she turned, nodding absently to Varric. "Alright. We should stop by the Keep so I can let Aveline know that it's not another gang, at the very least. Fenris, are you coming?" She silently cursed how timid she sounded addressing him, and her grip tightened on her staff.

"In a moment," he muttered. She watched him square his shoulders and draw in a deep breath. He was steeling himself, she realized.

"We won't be far," she reassured him, "we'll wait for you near the stairs to Hightown." She was unsurprised to see Anders make no move to join them in their departure. The two of them had grown distant, an uncrossable chasm rising between them ever since she had witnessed him murdering those templars.

Fenris nodded without looking to her, and she tried to pretend that the pang of fear in her chest was for his life, and not the worry that he was soon to be lost to her in more ways than one.

* * *

The Fog Warriors and Fenris stared at each other for a long, silent moment, and he resented Anders' presence next to Rowenna. He did not think it was possible for his heart to hammer any harder in his chest than it was, and he feared that if it kept pace it would surely burst before he was able to make it back home. Part of him willed it to be so, if only so that he would be done with this entire mess.

"Who are they?" he managed to ask at last, doing his best to ignore Anders completely, his voice quieter than he intended. He did not specify, but knew Declan would understand who he was referring to. Breaking eye contact with Rowenna at long last, he watched her brother warily. He felt as though he were standing on the very edge of a dangerous cliff and that he was about to fall. When the tumble did come, he knew, there would be nothing to catch onto, nothing to pull him back this time.

"Mat and Temrys," Declan answered, scratching at the stubble on his cheek. He'd expected this conversation to happen much sooner, and was disappointed that it was only now that Fenris was gathering his courage and facing his ghosts like the man they had known him to be. "Mat is from another tribe, he's the one who found us. Temrys was an apostate, but now he's one of us as well."

It was a scarce explanation but it was one that Fenris accepted and he inclined his head to show he understood. "Is my life to be forfeit to them as well? You called me brother, once. Would you allow a mage to end my life, knowing that it was magic that put us where we are now?"

Declan pursed his lips, his dark green eyes inspecting Fenris with a clarity that cut him to the bone and made him feel laid bare. He shifted uncomfortably beneath the weight of it, and he gathered his defenses. His posture changed and turned subtly as he prepared to either flee, or fight for his life, whichever became necessary first.

"They're not going to kill you Fenris. I'm not even going to kill you, though I have every right. You ran me through with your sword and left me to die on the sand, and then you tried to kill my sister. I should be putting an arrow through your eye right now instead of standing here talking to you." It was the first break in Declan's good nature, the first clue that beneath the surface lay a lion just as blood thirsty as that of his sister.

"Then why aren't you?" Fenris demanded, his previously well masked desperation beginning to creep into his voice. "Why do you torment me if you don't even mean to kill me?" His hands turned to fists at his side in an effort to control them, and he felt his lyrium humming to life. There was little he could do to stop it. The lack of sleep and mounting stress was slowly eroding his prided self-control and restraint. He could feel himself trembling with poorly concealed tension.

"He's leaving it to me," Rowenna answered simply, moving to stand beside her brother. A moment passed between the siblings and Fenris allowed it to cut him as it should have. He knew they wanted him dead, but the sudden image of them sitting around a campfire and planning out every detail of how they would kill him made him flinch. It would be so much easier if he could just reciprocate their hatred.

"A last courtesy then," Fenris requested, addressing Declan and straightening his shoulders. Let them think he was finally conceding his life to them. They should know better. He believed that they might very well end up possessing his life, but he would not acquiesce to them so easily. If he'd learned anything from his time with them, it was that his life was more than a thing to be handed over to someone else. Let them try and take it from him. If they succeeded, it would make their victory all the sweeter. If they did not…Fenris was not sure where an impasse would bring them.

Declan waved his hand in acceptance and even Temrys paused in his work to fix his gaze on Fenris in curiosity as to what the elf's last request was going to be. "Let me speak with Rowenna – alone."

It was a gamble and he knew it. They had no real reason to grant him any sort of last request, and by all rights had even fewer reasons to leave him alone with a woman he had tried to murder years before. Still, he hoped the part of them that made them honorable warriors would grant him this. Fenris had no plans to die today, but experience had long since taught him that even the best laid plans go awry, and not dying was very much the extent of Fenris' plan. He had no idea what he was doing beyond that. He could feel Rowenna's eyes as physically as he had felt her the night before and it roused in him unreachable things that he did not want to linger on. He was blustering forward; hoping for something, anything, that would make these _feelings_ she inspired him in go away. They were becoming unbearable and tormented him more than the Warriors' hatred of him. He was only a man, and he was at a loss.

He expected them to deny him, and indeed, Temrys and Anders both made a noise of obvious protest, but Declan gestured for them to be quiet and regarded Fenris with what he was sure was somehow amusement. "Alright," Declan agreed easily enough without bothering to consult Rowenna. "We'll let you have that before you die. Mat, Temrys, let's go see if the Hanged Man is still serving that hot mess they like to call lamb stew, all this heroic gang slaying made me hungry. Anders, come with us, we could use some of that blue healy thing you like to do."

One by one, they filed past him until he was left alone with only Rowenna and a pile of corpses that he did not remotely care about. They were one more unpleasant thing in an unpleasant city.

* * *

"What do you want, Fenris?" His name was a curse on her lips but he did not recoil from her this time.

"I want you to understand," he answered, daring to take a step closer and drawing strength from the fact that he was crossing a threshold that he would not be able to retreat from. It was an odd moment of clarity amidst the maelstrom his thoughts had been right up until then.

"Am I finally going to get an explanation as to why you murdered us?" she spat bitterly, stalking closer to him and closing the distance that separated them. Her hands shot out and caught him in the chest roughly, shoving him backwards a few feet and causing him to stumble. Her expression had gone from angry to murderous, but he would not be cowed by her again.

"Do you think it will make you feel better, Rowenna?" he shot back, anger suffusing his face. "Will it make it all the easier to kill me knowing that I felt compelled? That I felt I had no choice? Will it ease the burden of deaths if I tell you that I felt Danarius in my very bones and felt as though his will was all I could mete out?"

She continued glaring and opened her mouth to rebuke him, but he would not allow it. He pressed on, each volatile word that passed through his lips accompanied by a step forward until he was so close that he was staring down at her. "Do you know what it was to be on the other side of that day? How I wished nothing more than to die on that sand beside _you_ because I had forfeit all worth to live after what I'd done? I fled Danarius. If anything came from that day, it was that I finally could stomach who I was no longer and truly fled."

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?" Rowenna bit her words as though they'd done her wrong, glaring up at Fenris and drawing a fist back to strike him.

He caught her wrist easily and twisted her arm, pinning it behind her back effortlessly and scowling down at her. "No," he growled angrily. "I do not want your pity, but I do not want your hatred either, though I know I have rightly earned it."

"You're right, I hate you. How could I not?" she demanded, struggling viciously against the hold he had her in. She was pressed against him and she rebelled against the turbulence it was evoking in her. She bit the inside of her cheek, her teeth catching skin harshly and she let the pain help to ground her and pull her back to herself. It didn't matter that this was _Fenris_. All that mattered was what he had done and how she was going to make him pay dearly for it. "Let me go." She was railing against him, using her free hand to shove at his chest, striking his shoulders with what little force she could muster in her awkward position, but he was as immovable as a boulder.

"Not yet." He didn't know what he was doing, what he was hoping to accomplish with this. All he was doing was making her angry, and he was not so blind that he missed the flashes of hurt and uncertainty. Fenris was in uncharted waters, unstable territory. His stomach had dropped out from where it rightfully belonged and he knew she could feel the hammering of his heart against her own chest.

"Fenris." She was warning him, a growl starting in her throat, but he didn't heed it. Remembered sensations and images rolled over him and his grip on her tightened. It drew his ire that she was seemingly unaffected by him while he was hopelessly lost in her proximity. They had been moving toward an inevitability before his betrayal, but Danarius had intervened before they could full realize the changes between them. Now it seemed there was that same sense of inevitability, but what awaited him at the end was not Rowenna. It was a terrifying thought.

He was kissing her, then, and he wasn't sure how or why but he was. She stilled beneath him, frozen and caught off guard but he'd caught his moment and his second wind and was not about to let her escape. He crowded her, and her attempts at escape were halfhearted at best. She was lost under the assault of his lips and his hands, and she felt the groan rumble in his chest when her mouth opened beneath his and she ceased her struggling, her tongue brushing against his.

He crushed her against him, reveling in the taste and feel of her. This was what had plagued his dreams. This was the crushing weight that had nearly drowned him and now he did not know if he could release her back to her desire to kill him, to remove herself from his life. To lose this so soon after attaining it would surely kill him as readily as any of Rowenna's blades.

Her hips pressed against his urgently and he felt himself respond, rapidly losing himself in his hunger for her. Inside he was roaring triumphantly. He could feel her desire for him and it scorched him. She could not deny that she was caught in this unstable _thing_ that was consuming them both. Her skin burned the tips of his fingers as he released her wrist and slid his hands across her waist, teasing the flesh above the curve of her hip and relishing the moan that spilled from her throat. He would have her, the rest of the world be damned.

His feet moved them, one hand tangling in her hair to pull her head back with a roughness they both felt, until her back hit the filthy wall of the Lowtown alley and he pressed against her with renewed ardor. This was what they should have had. Her mouth was hot under his, aggressive and demanding.

He was dying, he was sure. Perhaps she'd killed him and this was the creation of his fevered dying brain. He could have accepted that, but for the solid feel of her around him, and the aching loss that drained all the heat from him when he felt the magic curl around them and hurl them apart as it once had.

* * *

**A note on the Tevinter being used in this chapter: I am using Latin as the main base for the language, and so yes the words have actual translations. Since I have gotten quite a few PMs in the past wondering just what our protagonists are going on about in their own language, I'll include the translations here for ease of access.**

Rowenna: Attulerunt suis meretriculae daemonium - They've brought their demon whore with them.

Mat: Nos oportebat iustus eius interficiam - We ought to just kill her now.

Rowenna: Possumus remaneo diébus nostris. Omnes tandem amittere - We can bide our time. They all lose eventually.


End file.
